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STUDY   OF    ENGLISH    FICTION. 


AN   INTRODUCTION 


TO  THE 


STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 


BY 


WILLIAM  EDWARD   SIMONDS, 

Ph.D.  (Strassburg), 
Professor  of  English  Literature,  Knox  Collb6S« 


BOSTON,  U.S.A. 
D.  C.  HEATH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 

1908 


mmt 


Copyright,  1894, 
Bv  W.  E.  SIMONUa. 


OF 

BERNHARD    TEN    BRINK, 

Cfjis  Booft  is  ©etitcateU 

WITH  A  pupil's   reverence  AND  A    FRIEND*S 
AFFECTION. 


PREFACE. 


There  was  a  time  when  by  people  with  pretensions  to 
a  careful  conscience  the  "  novel "  was  regarded  somewhat 
dubiously.  That  time,  let  us  hope,  is  of  the  past.  The 
existence  of  the  novel  as  a  form  of  fiction  requires  no 
vindication ;  no  apology  is  needed  for  its  pre-eminence  in 
the  popular  taste  of  the  day.  Not  only  are  we  compelled 
to  recognize  the  present  supremacy  of  the  novel  in  litera- 
ture, we  have  also  come  to  the  point  of  appreciating  its 
utility  and  power. 

The  development  of  English  fiction,  the  evolution  of  the 
English  novel,  forms  in  itself  an  interesting  story ;  and  an 
acquaintance  with  that  story  is  essential  to  an  apprehension 
of  the  real  qualities  of  our  fiction  and  to  an  intelligent 
estimate  of  its  originality  and  its  merits.  To  tell  this  story 
in  outline  and  to  indicate  the  characteristics  of  successive 
epochs  in  its  growth  is  the  purpose  of  this  volume.  The  ? 
teacher  may  find  it  difficult  to  recognize  the  "  text-book  ** 
in  the  preliminary  chapters :  he  is  reminded  that  these 
chapters  form  but  the  preface,  and  that  his  text-book  ' 
begins  with  what  comes  after. 

With  reference  to  the  Selections,  a  word  may  be  not 
amiss.  The  translations  from  ** Beowulf"  and  "King 
Horn"  are  rude  enough,  and  it  might  have  been  wiser  in 
the  writer  to  utilize  the  labors  of  a  more  clever  translator ; 
he  preferred,  however,  a  version  original  albeit  uncouth, 

196498 


X  PREFACE. 

and  has  been  as  faithful  as  he  was  able  to  be  to  the  spirit 
of  the  text.  The  Selections  which  follow  are  chosen 
because  of  special  features  which  seem  to  fit  them  for  the 
purpose.  Those  illustrative  of  the  Elizabethan  age  are, 
outside  the  larger  libraries,  scarcely  accessible  to  the  gen- 
eral student.  Because  of  this  fact,  a  typical  romance  of 
that  age,  "  Forbonius  and  Prisceria,"  has  been  incorporated 
entire.  In  other  cases  an  incident  or  episode,  in  itself 
complete,  has  suggested  the  Selection  which  has  been 
introduced. 

The  following  pages  contain  no  attempt  at  formal  biog- 
raphy or  scientific  criticism.  No  reference  has  been  made 
to  **  The  Golden  Ass  "  of  Apuleius,  nor  does  there  appear 
any  discussion  of  the  relation  of  the  novel  to  the  drama ; 
the  inter-relation  of  the  English  and  Spanish  romances  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  that  of  the  French  and  English 
tales  of  an  earlier  period,  receive  slight  comment.  All 
these  omissions  will  be  noted,  and  may  with  many  similar 
topics  be  made  the  subject  of  special  investigation  by  the 
student.  To  provide  a  bare  introduction  to  the  study  of 
English  fiction  is  the  purpose  of  the  book.  Its  compiler 
believes  thoroughly  in  the  principles  of  the  inductive 
method,  and  complacently  recognizes  the  subordination  of 
the  essays  to  the  texts  they  are  intended  to  introduce.  If 
through  these  pages  there  be  gained  a  better,  a  more  intel- 
ligent Acquaintance  with  these  works  and  with  the  literature 
which  they  represent,  the  purpose  of  this  Introduction  will 
be  accomplished. 

W.  E.  S. 

Galesburg,  Illinois, 

May  I,  1894. 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 

KUfC 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


Introtinctfon^ 

Pack 

I.  Old  English  Story-tellers 13 

II.  The  Romance  at  the  Court  of  Elizabeth.    .    .  25 

III.  The  Rise  of  the  Novel 37 

IV.  The  Perfection  of  the  Novel SS 

V.  Tendencies  of  To-day 70 

VI.  Books  for  Reference  and  Reading 86 

I.  Beowulf 94 

II.  King  Horn 103 

III.  Arcadia 109 

IV.  FoRBONius  and  Prisceria no 

V.  Doron's  Wooing ' 133 

VI.  Shepherds  Wives  Song 137 

VII.  Jack  Wilton 139 

VIII.  Euphuism  (from  "  A  Margarite  of  America  ")  .    .    .    .  148^ 

IX.  Moll  Flanders 150 

X.  Pamela 184. 

XI.  Tom  Jones 189 

XII.  Tristram  Shandy 221 

INDEX 237 


INTRODUCTION 


TO  THE 


STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 


I. 

OLD  ENGLISH   STORY-TELLERS. 

It  is  customary  to  date  the  rise  of  the  EngUsh  novel  at  about 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Between  the  years  1740 
and  1750  it  was,  indeed,  that  Richardson  and  Field- 
ing began  to  acquaint  a  surprised  and  delighted  Winning. 
circle  of  English  readers  with  what  appeared  to  be 
a  new  departure  in  literary  creation.  Now  the  novel,  as  a  spe- 
cific art  form,  is  distinctively  a  picture  of  life  in  its  actual  expe- 
riences, grave  or  gay,  familiar  or  extraordinary ;  it  is  always  the 
presentation  of  character  that  is  or  has  been  or  might  be  real ; 
and  if  we  think  of  the  novel  in  this  technical  and  restricted  sense, 
as  merely  the  plain  story  of  the  common  life  of  every  day,  or  if 
we  regard  the  form  the  story  then  assumed,  the  garb  it  then 
adopted  with  the  fashion  of  the  times,  the  assignment  of  its 
origin  to  this  period  is  approximately  correct.  But  it  is  not 
so  much  the  English  novel  as  English  fiction  which  we  have 
chosen  for  our  study;  and  as  the  first  essential  quality  of  fic- 
tion, whether  in  the  novel  or  the  romance,  is  the  narrative,  the 
story,  it  is  to  a  far  earHer  period  that  we  have  to  look  for  origins. 
Indeed  it  is  with  the  whole   long  line  of  English   story-tellers 


14  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

that  we  have  to  deal,  the  story-tellers  and  their  heritage,  when 

we  undertake  to   trace  the  novel  back  to  its   earliest   sources. 

The  line  is  unbroken,  the  craft  in  this  respect  is  one,  whether 

we  look  for  its  beginnings  in  the  eighteenth  century  or  in  the 

eighth. 

%    Were   our  old    English    ancestors    story-loving,   story-telling 

people  ?     Certainly  they  were,  like  all  the  Keltic  and  Teutonic 

races  from  whom  they  inherited  or  with  whom  they 
T^Glee-        neighbored.      Jutes,  Angles,  Saxons,  on   the   island 

as  on  the  continent,  had  their  gleemen,  who  could 
improvise  as  well  as  sing,  who  caught  the  story  of  popular  heroes 
from  the  people's  Hps,  their  deeds  that  demonstrated  not  only 
strength  of  body  but  greatness  of  soul,  their  turns  of  fate, — 
themes  which  fascinated  rude  audiences  in  those  rough  days, 
as  does  the  story  of  Lear  the  higher  culture  of  the  present. 
They  improvised  and  added  and  arranged  —  for  that  was  the 
province  and  the  privilege  of  their  art  —  until  they  wove  a  tale 
that  held  the  warriors  spell- bound,  or  brought  them  to  their  feet 
with  the  jangling  of  iron  shirts  of  mail,  and  the  ringing  of  steel  on 
steel,  and  the  hoarse  shouting  of  human  voices.  It  is  not  difficult 
to  conjure  up  what  must  have  been  an  ordinary  scene  :  the  long 
hall,  its  oaken  walls  well  hung  with  skins  of  wolf  and  fox  and 
bear,  the  armor  glittering  ruddy,  shields  dented  by  the  blows  of 
hostile  swords  as  well  as  by  the  friendly  poundings  of  the  black- 
smith's hammer,  bows  and  arrows,  spears  for  hurling,  coats  of 
mail.  How  the  light  would  dart  and  sparkle  on  all  this  metal 
ornament,  the  light  that  flashed  and!  flickered  as  the  great  fire 
crackled  and  roared  upon  the  hearthstone  !  The  men  —  huge 
fellows,  heroic  in  Hmb  and  muscle,  rough  and  boisterous  but 
cheery,  good-humored  among  friends  and  kinsfolk — sit  upon  the 
benches,  while  they  eat  noisily  of  the  hearty  meal,  and  empty  big 
horns  of  foaming  ale,  until  po'ssibly  the  flames  that  sparkle  among 
the  fir-boughs,  and  gleam  red  as  blood  from  the  trophies  on  the 
hall-side,  seek  another  trysting- place,  and  shine  bright  and  scorch- 
ing in  fiery  glances  which  shoot  from  eyes  now  full  of  passion,  — 
but  for  only  a  moment :  the  earl,  the  hall-lord,  speaks  the  haughty 


OLD  ENGLISH  STORY-TELLERS.  1 5 

word  of  quick  command ;  the  roar  of  voices  is  hushed,  the  rattle 
of  the  tables  ceases,  the  boasting,  the  rough  play  stop.  Again  the 
master  of  the  household  speaks  from  his  seat  of  honor  on  the  dais, 
where,  perhaps,  his  lady  sits  beside  him.  Now  his  tone  is  gentle ; 
and  at  his  word  the  gleeman,  striking  in  personal  appearance  as 
in  garb,  advances  bold  and  confident  from  the  throng,  and  takes 
the  place  assigned  him :  he  tunes  his  harp,  and  begins  his  song. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  Victory  of  King  Aethelstan  that  he  sang,  or  the 
Song  of  the  Fight  at  Maldon.  Very  Ukely,  if  it  were  in  the  time  of 
the  Edmunds  and  Edwards  and  Harolds  who  reigned  just  before 
the  Conquest.  But  if  it  was  at  an  earher  day,  possibly  when  good 
King  Alfred  reigned,  and  fought  the  Danes,  it  is  more  likely  to  have 
been  a  passage  from  the  great  epic  of  "  Beowulf,"  the  national 
poem  which  some  Anglian  singer  generations  before  had  brought 
in  its  germ  from  the  old  home  on  the  bleak  northern  coast,  when 
the  Angles  joined  their  kinsfolk  in  the  historic  movement  west- 
ward,—  "Beowulf,"  the  oldest  of  EngHsh  and  Teutonic  tales 
extant,  which  we  know  only  in  its  late  revision  of  the  ninth 
century,  as  we  suppose,  although  songs  of  Beowulf  had  been 
sung  two  centuries  earlier  than  that,  based  upon  the  adventures 
of  a  thane  who  had  lived  many  generations  before  this  last-named 
date,  and  who  for  his  exploits  had  been  made  the  hero  of  a 
myth.  What  is  this  song  that  the  gleeman  sang,  this  tale  which 
the  Anglo-Saxon  warriors  so  loved  to  hear? 

Hrothgar  the  Dane,  far  famed  for  his  victories  and  for  his 
justice  and  generosity  no  less,  grown  old  in  years,  builds  for  his 
men  a  great  mead- hall.     There  the  gray- haired  chief- 
tain assembles  his  vassals  for  feasting  and  mirth ;  but  ^q-^^^JJ^ 
an  unheard-of  horror  comes  upon  Heorot,  great  hall 
of  Hrothgar.     Out  from  the  fen -land,  when  night  falls,  stealthily 
creeps  the  bog-monster,  Grendel;    enters  the  new  house  where 
the  earls  after  carousal  lie  asleep  on  the  benches.     One  and  an- 
other  and  another  of   Hrothgar's  warriors  is  devoured  by  the 
monster;   night  after   night  Grendel  devastates  the  mead- hall. 
No  one  of  Hrothgar's  men  is  brave  enough,  is  strong  enough  to 
cope  with  the  demon.     Heorot  is  deserted;  and  the  old  chief 


l6  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

sits  gloomily  in  his  former  home  to  mourn  in  silence  the  loss 
of  men  and  of  honor.  Up  in  the  Northland  Hygelac's  thane, 
Beowulf,  young,  bold,  robust,  already  famous  for  a  daring  feat 
in  swimming,  and  destined  to  be  Hygelac's  heir  and  successor, 
hears  of  Hrothgar's  plight  and  of  Grendel.  Soon,  with  a  band  of 
chosen  men,  Beowulf  travels  southward,  follows  the  whale-path, 
the  swan-road,  until  he  comes  to  Hrothgar's  kingdom.  The 
coast-guard  sees  the  warriors  land,  and  challenges  their  bold 
front.  Beowulf  is  led  to  Hrothgar,  and  tells  his  purpose  to  kill 
the  monster  and  redeem  the  land.  Gladly  does  the  Dane  listen, 
and  generous  welcome  does  he  make  for  the  Northmen.  Night 
comes;  and  once  more  is  Heorot  thrown  open;  the  hearth  is 
ablaze ;  again  do  the  thanes  hold  revel  in  the  great  hall  of  Hroth- 
gar. Wassail  is  drunk,  stories  are  told,  bold  boasts  made ;  the 
walls  re-echo  the  warriors'  shouts.  Hardly  do  they  die  away, 
and  scarcely  have  the  revellers  lost  themselves  in  slumber  on  the 
benches,  when  the  fearful  fen-dragon  approaches ;  he  has  heard 
the  noise  of  feasting  from  afar,  and  now  the  black  monster  steals 
toward  the  hall,  laughing  as  he  thinks  of  his  prey.  The  fire  has 
died  out,  and  all  is  darkness.  One  of  Hrothgar's  men  is  seized 
and  devoured.  Raging,  with  lust  for  flesh  aroused,  Grendel 
grasps  another  in  his  claws.  But  it  is  the  hero  whom  the  bog- 
monster  has  unwittingly  caught;  and  now  Beowulf,  roused  for 
vengeance,  starts  up  to  battle  with  Grendel.  Unarmed  the  hero 
grapples  with  the  enemy.  The  hall  sways  with  the  shock  of  the 
fighting.  He  clutches  Grendel  by  the  wrist;  never  had  the 
monster  felt  a  grasp  like  that.  The  muscles  ache,  the  cords  of 
the  demon's  arm  are  snapping,  the  shoulder  tears  itself  from  the 
socket,  the  weary  marsh-dweller  gropes  his  way  blindly  forth,  and 
weakly  wends  toward  his  foul  home  in  the  swampland.  Grendel 
is  wounded  to  the  death.  Beowulf  rests  after  victory,  and  shows 
the  hideous  claw,  his  war- trophy,  to  the  Danes.  Great  joy  comes 
to  Hrothgar  with  the  dawn ;  but  with  the  night  woe  returns. 
Grendel's  mother  issues  from  the  death-breeding  marshes,  and 
invades  the  hall  of  Heorot.  Once  more  there  is  wailing  among 
the  thanes;  once  more  sorrow  rests  on  Hrothgar's  house;  but 


OLD  ENGLISH  STORY-TELLERS.  I7 

once  again  the  hero  girds  himself  for  battle.  With  his  faithful 
men  Beowulf  enters  the  fatal  fen-land ;  he  stands  upon  the  shore 
of  the  mist-covered  inlet  where  the  marsh-demons  breed.  Strange 
and  loathsome  shapes  appear,  half  shrouded  in  the  fog ;  the  nickers 
and  the  water-sprites  laugh  exultant,  with  monstrous  eyes  glaring 
at  the  hero  from  the  cloudy  waves  of  the  mere.  Here  Beowulf 
equips  himself,  —  puts  on  his  best  corselet,  grasps  the  strongest 
brand ;  then  he  enters  the  dark  water,  presses  down  through  the 
flood,  beset  by  the  sea- monsters,  bruised  by  their  sharp  tusks, 
undaunted,  down,  down  to  the  dwelling  of  Grendel  and  Grenders 
mother :  a  day's  journey  is  it  for  the  hero  before  he  reaches  the 
abode  of  the  demon.  Meanwhile  his  men  keep  watch  and  ward 
above  :  gloom  settles  on  them ;  doubt  fills  their  hearts  with  dread. 
The  day  drags  by :  no  sight  of  their  hero.  Still  they  wait,  and 
silent,  stare  on  the  sea.  Now  a  commotion  stirs  the  thick  water ; 
the  surface  boils  under  the  mists ;  blood  rolls  up  red  through  the 
foam ;  and  Beowulf's  men  yield  to  grief  and  despair.  But  grief 
gives  place  to  joy,  sorrow  to  gladness.  The  hero  emerges  from 
the  horrible  sea-flood,  bringing  news  of  the  she-demon's  slaughter 
and  a  new  trophy,  Grendel's  head  :  this  it  was  that  sent  the  red 
blood  welling  up  through  the  mere-flood  when  Beowulf  smote  the 
dead  monster's  body.  Loud  is  the  rejoicing;  triumphantly  do 
the  Northmen  give  the  Danes  warning  of  their  home-coming. 
Rich  are  the  gifts  bestowed  by  Hrothgar ;  great  is  the  feasting. 
Then  Beowulf's  men  think  of  the  home-land ;  the  shppery  sea- 
rover  is  launched,  the  warriors  embark  with  their  presents,  and 
Beowulf  says  farewell  to  Hrothgar,  and  steers  north  to  Hygelac's 
land. 

Beowulf  achieves  another  adventure.  Now  he  is  old :  as 
Hygelac's  successor,  fifty  winters  he  has  ruled  well  and  wisely,  and 
his  land  has  prospered ;  but  an  enemy  now  destroys  his  men, 
and  by  night  the  land  is  laid  waste.  This  time  it  is  a  fire-drake 
with  which  Beowulf  must  battle ;  and  the  hero  goes  forth,  daunt- 
less as  ever,  to  meet  the  monster.  But  now  his  men  prove 
cowards ;  the  hero  is  left  alone  to  fight  with  the  dragon,  —  alone 
but  for  Wiglaf,  who  stands  behind  his  lord's  shield  and  helps  as 


1 8  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

he  may.  Long  they  fight,  monster  and  man  :  this  is  no  Grendel, 
this  fire-spurter.  The  fierce  heat  shrivels  up  the  shield;  the 
heroes  are  hard  pressed ;  at  last  Wiglaf  disables  the  dragon. 
Beowulf  gives  the  death-blow.  But  Beowulf,  too,  has  been  hurt, 
and,  though  victor,  lies  sick  of  his  death-wound.  Then  Wiglaf 
brings  forth  the  hoard  from  the  cave  where  the  worm  had  so  long 
guarded  it,  and  Beowulf  feasts  his  eyes  ere  they  close  upon  the 
vast  treasure  he  bequeaths  to  his  people.  The  hero  is  dead : 
rear  his  funeral  pyre  !  Upon  the  tall  promontory,  a  beacon  to 
sailors,  friends  burn  the  body ;  and  the  flame  and  smoke  bear  the 
hero's  soul  upward. 

Such  are  the  stories  that  children  love  to  tell,  to  which  they 
delight  to  listen.  It  is  altogether  idle  to  discuss  whether  or  not 
this  be  the  record  in  allegory  of  the  coast-dweller's 
of^st^^  ceaseless  war  on  the  terrible  forces  of  ocean  and 
storm,  or  if  it  speaks  of  the  stealthy  approach  of  the 
malaria  and  the  fever  till  the  hero  builds  the  dikes  and  drains  the 
marshes.  These  are  the  tales  our  Anglo-Saxon  forefathers  loved, 
because  they  told  the  story  of  stout-hearted  heroes,  tireless  and 
dauntless,  who  contended  not  only  with  flesh  and  blood,  but  with 
those  mysterious  hosts,  those  uncanny  powers  of  sea  and  air, 
whose  existence  they  believed  and  had  sometimes  proved,  but 
whose  nature  and  form  lie  hidden  in  the  darkness  of  fog  and 
night. 

Now  for  a  long  time  there  w^as  no  worthy  product  of  EngUsh  pen 
possessing  the  same  character  of  narrative  fiction  which  we  have 
found  in  the  national  epic  of  "  Beowulf.' '  Metrical 
Amongthe  paraphrases  of  Scripture  history,  legends  of  the  saints 
and  martyrs,  a  rarely  occasional  lyric  of  notable  sweet- 
ness and  pathos,  formed  the  hterary  matter  of  the  period  and  the 
gleeman's  stock  in  trade.  But  with  the  advent  of  the  Normans 
in  the  eleventh  century,  a  new  stimulus  was  felt  in  this  department 
of  our  hterature.  Over  in  Normandy  French  poets  had  already 
sung  the  "  Song  of  Roland,"  in  character  and  quality  inferior  as  it 
was  dissimilar  to  the  old  English  song  of  which  we  have  just  been 
reading.     And  now  the  English  gleeman  gave  place  to  the  Nor- 


OLD  ENGLISH  STORY-TELLERS,  I9 

man  minstrel,  and  tales  of  French  heroes  sung  in  a  foreign  tongue 
were  heard  in  the  banqueting-halls  of  William  and  his  nobles, 
and  echoed  indeed  beyond  the  walls  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  England.  Strange  stories  of  Charlemagne  and  his 
twelve  paladins,  abounding  in  the  reports  of  jousts  and  contests, 
of  tricks  and  cunning ;  the  adventures  of  Grecian  Alexander,  too  ; 
tales  of  the  Fall  of  Troy;  and  numerous  other  subjects,  many  of 
them  borrowed  from  the  East,  —  formed  the  theme  of  minstrel  and 
jongleur,  and  kept  their  place  through  long  years  to  come.  More 
nearly  related  to  English  scenes,  and  yet  an  importation  from 
the  poetry  of  France,  were  the  traditionary  romances  of  Arthur 
and  his  knights,  the  scene  of  which  belonged  to  Wales.  The 
most  important  and  the  immediate  effect  of  this  Norman- French 
influence  upon  our  own  English  literature  was  seen  in  the  revival 
in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  of  an  interest  in  the  deeds 
of  EngUsh  heroes  and  the  traditions  native  to  EngHsh  soil.  This 
interest  speedily  manifested  itself  in  the  similar  treatment  of 
English  themes,  and,  a  little  later,  a  treatment  of  these  themes 
in  English  speech ;  for  by  that  time  the  English  spirit  and  the 
English  language  had  proved  stronger  than  the  Norman,  and  now 
prevailed.  The  deeds  of  Hereward  the  Saxon  had  been  told  in 
Latin,  and  then  in  Norman  verse ;  English  paraphrases  now  ap- 
peared. Similarly,  also,  the  adventures  of  Guy  of  Warwick  and 
Bevis  of  Hampton,  local  heroes  of  tradition,  were  sung  by  Anglo- 
Norman  poets,  and  then  in  the  EngHsh  tongue.  A  second  influ- 
ence of  the  Norman- French  poetry  is  traceable  in  a  new  element 
which  now  appears  in  the  treatment  of  these  English  themes  :  this 
is  the  element  of  love.  The  old  Saxons  in  their  rude  way  had  sung 
of  battle  and  of  booty ;  wild  tales  of  adventure  and  daring  had 
been  told,  but  never  a  word  of  the  tenderer  passion  of  love,  no 
recognition  of  woman's  subtle  power  in  the  hearts  and  lives  of 
men,  until  the  Norman  troubadours  had  introduced  their  forms 
of  courtly  gallantry,  and  softly  sung  the  devotion  of  brave  knights 
to  fair  ladies,  and  spoken  of  the  rewards  of  love.  For  the  life 
and  spirit  of  the  time  had  changed ;  the  days  of  chivalry  had 
dawned.     Among  the  eariiest  of  our  English  poems  to  reflect 


20  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION', 

this  influence  of  the  French  are  the  two  metrical  romances  of 
"  Havelok  the  Dane  "  and  "  King  Horn." 

"  A  song  I  shall  you  sing 
Of  Murry  the  king," 

is  the  quaint  beginning  of  this  latter  poem.  Murry  is  king  of 
South  Daneland ;  his  queen  is  Godhild ;  they  have  an  only  son, 
I  whose  name  is  Horn.     One  day  the  sea-robbers  — 

l^nTwnm  Saraccns,  the  poem  calls  them  —  descend  upon  King 
Murry's  shores,  the  king  is  slain,  his  queen  driven  into 
hiding,  and  Horn,  his  son,  with  twelve  comrades  is  taken  pris- 
oner. But  the  rare  beauty  of  the  youth  excites  the  pity  of  the 
pagan  leader,  and  instead  of  putting  them  to  the  sword,  their 
captors  place  the  boys  in  a  boat  and  set  them  adrift  on  the  open 
sea.  Miraculously  the  waves  drive  the  ship  to  Westernesse, 
where  King  Ailmar  adopts  Horn  and  provides  for  his  education. 
Horn  grows  in  favor  with  all  men ;  but  most  of  all  he  is  loved  by 
the  king's  daughter,  Maiden  Rymenhild.  Now  the  early  com- 
rades of  the  young  prince  are  still  in  his  company,  and  two  of 
them  are  especially  connected  with  the  fate  and  fortunes  of  Childe 
Horn  :  one  is  Athulf,  his  trusty  friend ;  the  other,  Fikenhild,  who 
is  a  traitor.  By  the  treachery  of  this  latter,  Ailmar  is  deceived, 
and  Horn  is  banished  from  the  land.  New  adventures,  new 
wanderings  follow ;  at  last  Horn  arrives  in  Ireland,  and  becomes 
King  Thurston's  man.  For  seven  years  he  remains  in  Ireland  a 
banished  man,  but  always  faithful  to  his  love.  Meanwhile  King 
Modi  of  Reynes  sues  for  the  hand  of  Maiden  Rymenhild  ;  Ailmar 
assents,  and  the  wedding-day  is  se  ^ ,  Rymenhild  and  Athulf  send 
a  messenger  to  search  for  Horn  and  to  warn  him  to  return. 
Horn  is  found  in  time,  arrives  in  Westeinesse  on  the  day  of  the 
marriage,  attends  the  feast  disguised  as  a  pilgrim,  and  in  dramatic 
fashion  expels  the  intruder  and  claims  his  own.  But  the  course 
of  true  love  does  not  yet  run  smoothly.  Horn  departs  again, 
now  to  claim  his  rights  in  his  home  in  Daneland.  This  he  suc- 
ceeds in  doing,  and  discovers  his  mother.  Queen  Godhild,  still 


OLD  ENGLISH  STORY- TELLERS.  21 

alive.  Again  word  comes  from  the  bride  in  haste ;  Rymenhild.  is 
once  more  in  mortal  peril,  —  this  time  at  the  hands  of  the  traitor 
Fikenhild.  Again  Horn  returns,  rescues  his  betrothed,  and  all 
ends  joyously  with  the  wedding  and  a  happy  return  to  South 
Daneland,  where  Horn  is  king. 

"  King  Horn "  belongs,  doubdess,  to  the  thirteenth  century, 
and  is  an  excellent  specimen  of  the  old  metrical  romance.     The 
love-story  has  now  become  an  element  in  English  lit- 
erature ;  it  is  the  very  kernel  in  the  romance  of  "  King  J?!j°g^ 
Horn,"  although  oddly,  as  it  seems  to  us,  the  heroine 
woos  the  hero,  and  Horn  is  far  too  passive  as  a  lover  to  suit  the 
Rymenhilds  of  a  later  day. 

Along  with  these  metrical  romances,  there  were  circulating  in 
popular  form  during  the  twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  fourteenth  cen- 
turies, numerous  shorter  works  of  similar  character, 
although  differing  from  these  more  important  crea-  g^^^ 
tions  and  from  each  other  in  outward  shape.  For  the 
most  part  this  minor  fiction  was  anecdotal  in  character.  Collec- 
tions of  short  stories  in  prose,  Hke  the  "  Gesta  Romanorum  "  and 
the  "Process  of  the  Seven  Sages,"  were  translated  into  English. 
Short  metrical  tales  were  numerous,  the  best  gradually  appearing 
in  the  early  ballads,  —  treasuries  of  folk-lore,  if  not  of  fact,  the 
almost  mysterious  creations  of  the  nameless  poets  of  the  people. 
Truly,  they  who  told  the  tales  of  "  Sir  Patrick  Spens "  and 
"  Chevy  Chace  "  are  worthy  of  a  reference  in  the  annals  of 
English  story- telling ;  and  they  who  first  sang  the  gestes  of 
"  Robin  Hood  '*  will  never  fail  of  recognition,  even  though  their 
names  are  lost  in  the  dimness  of  obscurity.  By  far  the  most 
noteworthy  of  these  early  romances,  however,  are  those  which 
embalm  the  traditions  and  legends  of  King  Arthur.  The  knightly 
exploits  of  Arthur's  followers,  the  stories  of  courtly  love  and  of 
unlawful  passion,  mystical  tales  of  adventure  in  search  of  the 
holy  Graal,  —  these  themes  won  all  the  greater  interest  and 
attention  because  they  centred  around  a  national  hero  who 
had  found  a  home  in  Wales.  Chretien  de  Troyes  and  German 
Wolfram  likewise  sang  the  Graal-saga  ;  but  English  story-tellers 


22  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

claimed,  and  have  since  claimed,  blameless  King  Arthur  as  their 
own. 

About  the  year  1340  Geoffrey  Chaucer  was  born ;  and  with  his 
advent  Enghsh  literature  advanced  with  almost  incredible  strides. 
A.  great  writer  whose  title  was  indisputable  was  now  arisen  on 
Chaucer  and  English  soil.  A  poet,  a  chronicler,  a  dramatist,  a  nov- 
theCaBter-  elist,  —  although  he  composed  no  actual  drama  and 
"^  ^'  wrote  no  formal  novel,  Chaucer  was  each  of  these,  for 
his  writings  contain  the  germs  of  all  these  forms  of  literature  ;  he 
might  have  been  the  "morning-star"  of  all.  Many  of  "The 
Canterbury  Tales  "  are  perfect  examples  of  that  popular  branch 
of  literature  indicated  by  the  name  ;  the  story  of  the  "  dronken 
millere,"  for  example,  as  well  as  the  reeve's  tale  which  follows 
it.  Of  a  higher  grade  are  the  stories  of  Patient  Griselde,  related 
by  the  Oxford  clerk,  and  the  famihar  tale  of  the  "  three  riot- 
toures  "  and  Death.  Yet  it  is  far  rather  the  entire  collection  of 
the  Tales  with  their  setting  and  their  telling  which  displays  the 
genius  of  this  prince  of  story-tellers.  Here  is  a  little  band  of 
English  people  of  all  the  orders,  "  wel  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  com- 
panye,"  to  whom  two  or  three  others  are  afterward  added ;  each 
distinctly  drawn  in  character  and  personaHty,  from  the  gentle 
knight  returned  from  following  in  his  lord's  wars  abroad  and  the 
sentimental  prioress  with  her  greyhounds  and  her  "  Amor  vincit 
omnia,"  to  the  coarse  sailor  and  the  thievish  pardoner  whose  bag 
is  stuffed  full  of  clouts  and  pig's  bones  which  he  sells  for  relics. 
How  artfully  the  stories  are  linked  in  their  plausible  arrangement ; 
what  perfect  self-revealing  have  we  here  of  each  person  in  the 
company,  as  the  pilgrims  wend  their  way  toward  Canterbury  ! 
This  it  is  that  proves  Chaucer's  dramatic  skill.  "  The  Canterbury 
Tales  "  is  not  a  mere  collection  of  diverting  narratives  gathered 
by  the  author  to  amuse  his  readers :  it  is  one  book,  is  to  be  taken 
as  a  whole,  a  unit.  It  is  a  picture  of  Chaucer's  England  that  we 
see,  and  the  best  example  of  ambitious  character  painting  up  to 
that  time  attempted.  The  Canterbury  pilgrims  were  alive,  and 
have  lived  as  real  characters  in  English  literature  ever  since. 

And  yet  Chaucer  wrote  one  romance  which  more  than  "  The 


OLD   ENGLISH  STORY-TELLERS.  23 

Canterbury  Tales  "  contains  the  spirit  of  our  modern  novel.  This 
is  the  **Troylus  and  Criseyde."  Here  love  is  the  theme  and 
motive ;  here  gallantry  calls  all  its  arts  into  play ;  here,  alas,  the 
perversity  of  fickle  womanhood  receives  a  careful  portraiture  in 
a  most  heartless  type.  In  the  wooing  of  King  Horn,  Maiden 
Rymenhild  played  the  hero's  part ;  but  now  that  day 
is  gone  forever.  In  Chaucer's  romance  the  lover  Troyiusand 
languishes,  while  the  lady  is  coy  though  not  averse. 
Success  attends  the  wooing,  but  disaster  follows,  and  the  end  is 
most  affecting  tragedy.  No  work  in  character  drawing  superior 
to  some  of  that  in  this  poem  was  ever  done  by  Chaucer.  The 
wily  Pandar,  the  fickle  Criseyde  are  inimitable ;  on  the  other 
hand,  the  portrait  of  the  hero  is  less  satisfactory :  he  is  too  lan- 
guishing, too  sentimental,  too  weak.  None  of  the  metrical 
romances  which  preceded  Chaucer's  time  had  been  told  with  such 
sweet  artfulness  as  this.  The  material  he  used  had  been  bor- 
rowed, as  was  the  case  in  most  of  the  "  Tales ;  "  but  the  master 
touches  were  his  own,  and  mark  him  greatly  superior  to  Byron  in 
practically  the  same  field. 

The  stories  of  "Beowulf"  and  "King  Horn,"  together  with 
the  numberless  compositions  similar  in  material  and  purpose, 
had  been  told  in  verse.  It  was  natural  enough  that 
this  should  be  :  tales  which  were  sung  or  chanted  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  harp,  lengthy  stories  which  were 
oftener  confided  to  the  singer's  memory  and  rarely  to  the  manu- 
script,—  these  should  move  to  rhythm  and  possess  some  sort  of 
rhyme,  that  the  minstrel's  recollection*  might  be  aided,  and  that 
the  listener's  ear  might  be  not  uncharmed  with  melody.  When 
this  form  of  entertainment  passed  away,  and  the  minstrel  gave 
place  to  the  scribe  and  copyist,  the  accompaniment  of  verse 
became  unnecessary  and  unnatural ;  but  it  was  long  before  this 
fact  was  reahzed,  even  though  now  and  then  a  coarse  story  had 
already  found  its  way  into  unmelodious  prose.  This  slowness  in 
the  development  of  English  prose  narrative  is  not  altogether  to 
be  wondered  at.  Force  of  example  is  strong ;  and  this  is  what 
made  the  "Troylus  and  Criseyde  "  a  metrical  romance  — the  last, 


7 


24  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION 

as  it  was  the  best  —  rather  than,  as  it  might  naturally  have  been, 
the  first  of  English  romances  in  prose.  This  was  an  accident 
in  form.  What  is  more  remarkable  is  the  fact  that  Chaucer  had 
no  immediate  successor  in  the  field  of  realistic  art,  in  prose  or 
poetry ;  that  he  marked  not  only  the  climax,  but  the  culmination 
of  this  new  movement  in  English  literature ;  and  that  in  the 
painting  of  character,  of  life  actual  and  real,  we  meet  no  serious 
attempt  in  an  interval  of  two  hundred  years. 


ROMANCE  AT  THE   COURT  OF  ELIZABETH,  2$ 


II 


THE   ROMANCE  AT  THE   COURT   OF 
ELIZABETH. 

Sometime  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  fifteenth  century,  while  the 
struggle  between  the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster  was  not  yet 
over,  William  Caxton,  a  well-to-do  silk-merchant  of 
London,  made  the  acquaintance  of  certain  Dutch  in-  ^5^^ 
ventors  who  told  him  of  a  new  art  for  making  books. 
So  enamored  with  this  art  did  Caxton  become  that  he  bought  a 
press,  and  came  with  it  home  to  London;  and  thus  at  the,  very 
time  when  bold  Duke  Gloster  was   preparing  the  way  for   bad 
King  Richard,    this  far-sighted    merchant- tradesman   set   up   in 
Westminster  the  first   printing- shop  in  England^  and    began  to 
manufacture  books.     Sixty-four  volumes  in  all  were  printed   on 
his  presses ;  of  these  a  large  proportion  were  works  of  fiction. 

Among  the  earliest  of  Caxton's  publications  an  edition  of  "  The 
Canterbury  Tales  "  found  a  conspicuous  place.  Indeed,  this  first 
edition  was  closely  followed  by  a  second,  based  upon  a  better 
text ;  and  Chaucer's  popularity  with  the  reading  public  is  further 
attested  by  the  appearance  shortly  after  of  his  "Troylus  and 
Criseyde/'  now  for  the  first  time  in  type.  In  1485  Caxton's 
enterprise  and  good  taste  —  for  the  one  quality  is  always  as 
prominent  as  the  other  —  led  him  to  print  a  volume  which  Sir 
Thomas  Malory  had  completed  fifteen  years  before.  This  was 
the  story  of  King  Arthur,  told  in  graceful  and  melodious  English 
prose,  and,  under  the  title  of  "  Morte  d'Arthur,"  familiar  to  every 
schoolboy  of  our  time.  Once  more  the  old  tales  of  the  Knights 
of  the  Table  Round  had  been  sought  and  gathered  for  English 
readers ;  nor  were  they  to  appear  again  in  so  attractive  form  until 


26  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

rewoven  and  retold  by  England's  latest  laureate  in  the  "  Idylls  of 
the  King." 

There  is  little  to  interest  the  student  of  English  fiction  occur- 
ring between  .the  accession  of  Henry  and  that  of  Elizabeth. 
The  Utopia  Many  French  and  Italian  romances  were  read  in 
of  Sir  England,  and  some  collections  of  tales  of  adventure 

omas  ore.  .^  j^^^  ^^^  ^^^  found  their  way  into  Enghsh  through 
translation.  The  one  notable  work  at  all  related  to  the  class  of 
fictitious  narrative  was  Sir  Thomas  More's  "  Utopia ;  "  and  this 
was  rather  a  political  treatise  than  a  novel  or  a  romance.  The 
"Utopia  "  was  written  in  Latin,  and  printed  at  Louvain,  in  1516  ; 
by  the  middle  of  the  century  it  had  been  translated  into  EngUsh, 
and  is  commonly  referred  to  as  an  English  work.  The  narrative 
tells  of  a  wonderful  country,  the  State  of  Nowhere,  —  a  land 
where  religion  was  left  to  individual  conscience,  and  war  con- 
sidered an  unmitigated  evil ;  where  the  people  studied  the  prob- 
lems of  labor  and  crime,  and  sought  how  to  promote  the 
interests  of  public  health,  education,  and  comfort.  "  Citizens 
ruled  by  good  and  wholesome  laws,  —  that  is  an  exceeding  rare 
and  hard  thing."  Sir  Thomas  must  have  felt  the  truth  of  his 
own  observation  still  more  deeply  when,  but  a  few  brief  years 
later,  he  stood  upon  the  scaffold  for  conscience'  sake,  at  the 
will  of  his  tyrannous  master,  Henry  VIII.  So  the  world  first 
heard  of  Utopia :  no  wonder  that  its  fame  became  widespread. 
Rabelais  knew  of  its  whereabouts,  and  drew  upon  its  inhabitants 
^to  "refresh,  people,  and  adorn"  the  new  kingdom  founded  by 
Pantagruel  in  Dispodie.  The  "Utopia"  was  a  product  of  the 
new  learning,  and  was  instinct  with  the  genius  of  common  sense. 
Dream  though  it  was,  most  of  its  scheme  has  worked  its  way 
into  the  constitution  of  modern  England,  and  to  a  surprising 
degree  into  the  reality  of  modern  thought.  For  its  method  and 
for  its  influence  upon  subsequent  essayists  in  this  line  of  writing, 
the  "Utopia"  deserves  a  place  in  our  category.  Pamphlet  or 
romance,  narrative  or  philosophy,  tract  or  story,  it  became  the 
pattern  in  English  literature  for  the  "  New  Atlantis "  and  the 
diverting  narrative  of  Captain  Lemuel  Gulliver;  it   has  been  a 


ROMANCE  AT  THE   COURT  OF  ELIZABETH.  2/ 

Storehouse  as  well  as  a  model  for  such  as  write  latter-day 
pamphlets  or  claim  the  privilege  of  looking  backward  from 
beyond. 

But  this  was  not  the  sort  of  Hterature  that  pleased  the  fine 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  waited  upon  the  Virgin  Queen.  John 
Lyly  (15 54-1 606)  was  the  earliest  of  that  group  of 
courtly  writers,  and,  in  a  sense,  the  most  important.  i^°i"^^^^^ 
He  set  the  fashion  for  the  rest,  and  gave  them  a  name 
which  has  been  used  to  distinguish  them  ever  since.  When ; 
twenty-five  years  old,  he  wrote  two  books  :  "  Euphues,  the  Anatomy 
of  Wit,"  and  "  Euphues,  his  England ;  '*  "  wherein  are  con- 
tained," says  Lyly,  "  the  dehghts  that  wit  followeth  in  his  youth 
by  the  pleasantness  of  Love,  and  the  happiness  he  reapeth  in 
age  by  the  perfectness  of  wisdom."  The  tone  of  this  formidable 
title  will  indicate  something  of  the  nature  of  the  tale ;  for,  as 
matter  of  fact,  "  Euphues  "  is  more  notable  for  the  singular  form 
in  which  it  was  couched  than  for  any  startling  degree  of  interest 
pertaining  to  the  plot.  It  is  the  story  ol  a  young  Athenian  who, 
in  his  travels,  arrives  eventually  in  England.  The  results  of  his 
observation  and  meditation  Euphues  conveys  to  a  friend,  by 
name  Philautus;  especially  does  he  dwell  upon  the  disposition 
and  nature  of  woman,  and  the  woeful  effects  of  love,  until  we  are 
reminded  that  our  hero  has  been  anything  but  happy  in  his 
experiences  with  the  sex,  so  bitter  are  his  animadversions  on 
these  and  kindred  topics.  Philautus,  happily  for  the  reader  as  well 
as  for  himself,  is  not  so  completely  under  the  saturnine  influence 
of  his  friend,  but  that  a  pretty  little  love  story  is  at  last  developed, 
wherein  Philautus  appears  in  love  with  an  English  damsel,  and 
Euphues,  the  sly  hypocrite,  is  found  aiding  and  abetting  the  lovers 
in  their  plans. 

Lyly  adopted  an  odd,  fantastic  style  of  diction  in  writing  his 

romance,  —  a  style  originating  in  Italy  and  Spain,  consisting  of 

an  elaborate  balance  gained  by  the  use  of  antithesis,        ^  , 

.  Euphuism 

a  generous  employment  of  alliteration,  and  withal  an 

extravagant,  bombastic  language  that  seems  to  us  to-day  fit  only 

for  the  purposes  of  the  ridiculous.     "  There  is  no  privilege  that 


28  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

needeth  a  /ardon,  neither  is  there  any  remission  to  be  asked, 
where  a  ^^;>^mission  is  granted,  I  speak  this,  Gentlemen,  not 
to  excuse  the  <?/"fence  which  was  taken,  but  to  offer  a  ^^fence 
where  I  was  mistaken^  Imagine  whole  pages  of  this  depravity  ! 
And  yet  the  jargon  became  extremely  popular  in  courtly  circles, 
and  left  a  decided  impression  upon  the  literature  of  that  age. 
Even  the  great  Shakespeare,  although  in  the  character  of  Don 
Armado,  the  fantastical  Spaniard  of  "  Love's  Labor 's  Lost,"  he 
satirizes  the  bombastic  fluency  of  euphuism,  nevertheless  himself 
delights  evidently  in  the  extravagant  diction  and  elaborate  con- 
ceits that  were  its  most  effective  characteristics.  Lyly  set  the 
fashion  for  the  literature  of  Queen  Eliza's  court,  and  the  story- 
tellers of  the  time  at  once  took  up  the  style  and  wrote  their 
books  accordingly.  The  name  of  Euphues  became  a  word  to 
conjure  by.  The  host  of  imitators  made  a  bid  for  popularity  by 
borrowing  the  hero's  name.  "Zelauto,  the  fountain  of  Fame 
.  .  .  containing  a  delicate  disputation  given  for  a  friendly  enter- 
tainment to  Euphues  at  his  late  arrival  into  England,"  was 
the  title  of  a  book  published  in  1580.  Lyly's  contemporary, 
Greene,  wrote  "  Euphues,  his  censure  to  Philautus,"  in  1587,  and 
"  Menaphon,  Camilla's  alarm  to  slumbering  Euphues,"  in  1589. 
And  scores  of  tales  similar  in  style  if  not  in  name  were  furnished 
by  the  euphuists,  and  eagerly  read  and  applauded  by  the  people. 
As  has  been  hinted,  it  is  clearly  evident  that  our  prince  of  dra- 
matists was  himself  enamored  of  these  romantic  compositions, 
'and  found  the  suggestion,  if  not  details,  for  more  than  one  great 
play  in  these  euphuistic  romances  which  we  are  now  describing. 
The  plots  of  "Twelfth  Night"  and  "The  Winter's  Tale"  were 
drawn  from  two  stories  of  this  group;  "As  You  Like  It"  is 
merely  a  dramatization  of  Lodge's  "  Rosalynde ;  "  and  a  collec- 
tion of  tales  translated  from  the  Italian  and  French,  known  as 
"  Paynter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,"  supplied  the  plots  of  "  Romeo 
and  JuHet,"  "  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well,"  and  "  Measure  for 
Measure." 

Among  the  followers  of  Lyly  the  names  of  Lodge  and  Greene 
are    notable.     Thomas    Lodge    (i558(?)-i625)    wrote    "The 


ROMANCE  AT  THE    COURT  OF  ELIZABETH,  29 

Delectable   Historie  of  Forbonius  and  Prisceria"  in  1584,  and 
in  1590  told  the  tale  of  "  Rosalynde ;  "  first  revealing  to  us  in 
one    of  the   best  romances  of  his    day   the    charm-    xhomas  Lodge ' 
ing  secrets  of  that  far-off  Forest  of  Arden,  destined  and  Robert 
to  be  still  further  explored  and  made  familiar  to  the   ®^®^"^' 
world   by  the   great  dramatist  who  followed  him.     A  third  ro- 
mance, "  A  Margarite  of  America,"  is  attributed  to  this  author; 
although  it  professes  to  be  a  translation  from  a  Spanish  worl: 
discovered  by  the  story-teller  in  the  Jesuits'  Library  at  Santos  in 
Brazil,  in   1592.     Lodge  was  a  great  traveller  in  his  day,  and 
spent  almost  as  much  time  on  the  sea  as  on  shore.     Besides  the 
three  romances  mentioned,  the  works  of  this  writer  were  either 
political  or  poetical  in  character.     For  a  number  of  years  Lodge 
followed  the  practice  of  medicine;  dying  in  1625,  at  the  age  of 
sixty-seven  or  sixty-eight. 

Robert  Greene  (i 560-1592)  was  another  euphuistic  weaver  of 
old-time  romance ;  but  while  Lodge  lived  the  regular  life 
of  a  discreet  and  eminently  respectable  London  "  gentleman  o-f 
Lincoln's  Inn,"  Greene  appears  to  have  been  a  perfect  Bohemian 
by  profession.  An  odd  combination  ox  the  honorable  and  dis- 
graceful, appreciative  of  the  finer  and  purer  qualities  of  character, 
he  was  devoted  to  pursuits  of  pleasure,  and  seems  to  have  pos- 
sessed not  the  slightest  self-control.  His  stories  were  suggestive 
of  his  character,  and  the  struggle  of  good  and  evil  was  his  most 
frequent  theme.  Greene  was  the  author  of  several  naive  "  Repen- 
tances," in  which  he  appears  of  course  as  hero.  But  along  with 
his  political  pamphlets,  his  satires,  his  poems,  and  his  plays, 
Greene  wrote,  too,  several  readable  novels,  —  that  is,  of  course,  as 
novels  went  in  that  day.  By  turns  he  drew  upon  the  Italian,  the, 
Danish,  the  Greek,  to  supply  his  characters;  now  Sicily,  now 
Egypt,  was  the  scene  of  his  romance.  The  most  successful  of  his 
stpries  appears  to  have  been  that  same  "  Pandosto,"  a  romantic 
history  of  Sicilian  and  Bohemian  kings  and  shepherds,  their 
jealousies  and  loves,  which,  happily,  was  to  catch  the  fancy  of 
the  master  who  told  again  the  story  in  a  certain  romantic  "  Winter's 
Tale."     And  then  Greene  went  to  real  life  for  his  material,  and 


30  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

was  the  first,  perhaps,  of  English  writers  to  try  the  experiment  of 
describing  half  realistically,  for  the  amusement  of  the  polite  world, 
that  lower  stratum  of  society  whose  heroes  are  gentlemen  of  the 
road  and  whose  heroines  are  members  of  the  demi-monde.  In 
this  latter  sort  of  literature  Greene  had  a  few  imitators,  not  many, 
chief  of  whom  was  Thomas  Nash. 

Thomas  Nash   (156 7-1 600)    was  another  typical   Bohemian, 
half  genius,  half  vagabond,  who,  like  many  another  man  of  talent 

in  that  day,  paid  the  penalty  of  his  irregularities  and 
ReaSst^^^^^'   excesses   by   an   early   death.     His   most   successful 

novel  was  called  "  The  Unfortunate  Traveller,  or  the 
Life  of  Jack  Wilton,"  and  was  published  in  1594.  "Jack  Wilton  " 
was  a  prototype  of  such  works  as  the  "  Colonel  Jack  "  and  "  Moll 
Flanders  "  of  Defoe.  It  pretended  to  be  the  autobiography  of  a 
page  who  was  at  once  a  rascal  and  a  wit,  and  whose  spicy  adven- 
tures at  home  and  abroad  are  certainly  diverting,  if  not  exactly 
unto  edification.  Naturally,  the  book  is  not  written  with  the  skill 
of  the  later  novelists ;  it  is  only  a  step  forward  in  the  art,  but  it 
is  a  notable  advance  toward  realism  and  the  actualities  of  life, 
low  life  though  it  be.  Historical  personages  appear  as  characters 
in  the  novel.  Sir  Thomas  More  is  one,  and  another  is  Henry 
Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  whom  Wilton  attends  as  page  ;  Francis  I. 
is  introduced,  and  the  closing  scene  includes  a  description  of 
the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold. 

No  discussion  of  the  fiction  of  low  life,  as  exemplified  in  the 
"Repentances"  of  Greene  and  the  "Jack  Wilton"  of  Thomas 

Nash,  would  be  complete  without  some  reference  to 
M^emie         ^^  so-called    picaresque    romance,   which  made   its 

appearance  in  Spanish  literature  just  after  the  close 
of  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  century.  In  1553  Diego  Hurtado 
de  Mendoza  published  his  "  Lazarillo  de  T6rmes."  It  assumes 
to  be  the  autobiography  of  a  boy  from  the  lowest  class,  who  is 
sent  forth  into  the  world  as  the  comrade  of  a  blind  beggar.  By 
cunning  and  impudence  he  makes  his  way ;  and  his  adventures 
were  found  so  diverting,  his  imperturbable  good-humor  so  un- 
failing, that  the  "  Little  Lazarus "  speedily  grew  into  an  almost 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 

/ROMANCE  A^''==Tm^=^em7RT  OF  ELIZABETH.  31 

extravagant  popularity ;  indeed,  the  hero  of  Mendoza's  romance 
became  the  traditional  character  of  the  type,  and  a  whole  litera- 
ture in  imitation  of  the  "  Lazarillo  de  T6rmes  "  sprang  into  exist- 
ence, flourishing  in  Spain  contemporaneously  with  the  English 
works  of  Greene  and  Nash,  and  those  of  their  successors,  Nicholas 
Breton  (1542-1626),  Henry  Chettle  (died  1607),  and  Thonias 
Dekker  (died  1641).  The  most  successful  Spanish  romance  of  ^, 
this  type  was  the  "  Guzman  de  Alfarache  "  of  Marled  Aleman,  the  Yi^ckAj^ 
first  part  of  which  was  pubHshed  at  Madrid  in  1599,  the  second 
at  Valencia  in  1605.  This  second  part  was  widely  read  in  an 
excellent  EngHsh  translation  made  later  in  the  century,  and,  in- 
deed, passed  over  into  almost  all  the  languages  of  Europe,  becom- 
ing evidently  one  of  the  most  popular  fictions  of  that  age.  It  is 
easy  to  overlook  reciprocal  influences  of  this  kind ;  yet  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that  in  the  period  with  which  we  are  dealing 
there  was  no  real  isolation  of  the  literatures  of  France,  Italy, 
England,  and  Spain,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  mutual  familiarity 
and  a  close  inter-relation,  fostered  by  a  general  culture  and  a 
prevalent  habit  of  travel,  which  did  much  to  introduce  foreign 
fashions,  and  to  establish  community  of  taste. 

Among  the  brilliant  throng  that  graced  the  Court  of  the  Virgin 
Queen,  there  was  no  gentleman  more  accomplished  in  the  courtly 
graces,  or  more  generally  honored  and  beloved,  than 
Sir  Philip  Sidney.     His  birth  was  noble,   his  tastes  Sidney 
were  high,  his  character  chivalric  to  the  last  desrree.   and  Ms 
All  through  his  somewhat  stormy  and  romantic  life 
he  bore  himself  ever  as  the  ideal  knight,  without  fear  and  without 
reproach.     Besides  his  group  of  passionate  love-sonnets,  entitled 
"  Astrophel  and  Stella,"  Sir  Philip  Sidney  left  behind  him  at  his 
death  an  elaborate  pastoral  romance,  which  in  the  year  1580  he 
had  begun  to  indite  solely  for  the  entertainment  and  diversion  o{ 
the  Countess,  his  sister.     Sidney  never  designed  his  romance  for 
publication ;  as  he  sent  the  sheets  to  his  sister,  he  charged  her  to 
destroy  them,  saying,  "  For  severer  eyes  it  is  not,  being  but  a  trifle, 
and  that  triflingly  handled."    Sidney  died  in  1586,  and  in  1590  the 
romance  thus  composed  was  published  at  London,  under  the  title 


32  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

of  "  The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia."  Again  we  trace  the 
influence  of  the  continental  literature  of  the  day;  for  although 
"  Euphues  "  had  appeared  in  1579,  none  of  the  romantic  works 
of  Greene  or  Lodge  had  yet  been  written  when  Sir  PhiHp  Sidney 
began  his  story.  The  direct  inspiration  of  this  romance  is  to  be 
found  in  the  "  Diana  Enamorada,"  —  a  pastoral  romance  by  Jorge 
de  Montemayor,  published  at  Valencia  in  1542.  Montemayor 
was  a  Portuguese  by  birth,  although  his  life  was  spent  largely  in 
Spain.  His  model  in  turn  was  an  Italian  work  of  much  earlier 
origin,  —  the  "Arcadia"  of  Sannazaro,  which  had  appeared  at 
Naples  in  1504.  By  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  the  pas- 
toral romance,  of  which  this  early  "  Arcadia  "  was  the  prototype, 
had  won  its  way  into  all  the  literatures  of  Europe,  entirely  sup- 
planting the  older  romance  of  chivalry,  of  which  the  "  Amadis 
de  Gaula "  was  the  most  famous  and  most  influential  example. 
Cervantes,  the  great  satirist  of  the  romances  of  chivalry,  was  him- 
self the  author  of  a  prose  pastoral  bearing  the  title  "  Galatea ;  " 
and  yet  another  *^  Arcadia  "  came,  later,  from  the  hand  of  Lope 
de  Vega.  A  singular  fact  concerning  these  romances  is  that  in 
many  of  them  characters  and  incidents  from  real  life  were  intro- 
duced by  the  writers  :  and  this  interesting  characteristic  is  said  to 
have  added  very  naturally  to  their  popularity.  In  "  The  Countess 
of  Pembroke's  Arcadia,"  Sir  Philip  Sidney  combines  the  promi- 
nent characteristics  of  the  chivalrous  and  the  pastoral  romance. 
The  scene  is  placed  in  the  old  shepherd  state  of  central  Greece. 
There  are  thrilling  adventures  and  exploits  of  superhuman  hero- 
ism, of  which  Love  is  generally  the  instigator ;  and  the  peculiar 
excellence  of  Sidney's  effort  lies  in  his  attempt  to  depict  the 
passion  in  individuals  of  varied  chaiacter  and  of  opposite  rank. 
Kings  and  queens,  princes  and  princesses,  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses appear  in  character  or  in  disguise. 

The  friendship  of  Musidorus  and  Pyrocles  is  like  that  of  David 

and  Jonathan ;  and  the  plot  is  well  calculated  to  bring  out  acts 

of  devotion  on  the  part  of  one  to  the  other.     The 

heroes  are  in  love  with  the  two  daughters  of  a  king 

of  Arcadia.     The  name  of  one  of  the  princesses  is  Pamela ;  and 


ROMANCE  AT  THE   COURT  OF  ELIZABETH.  33 

besides  the  employment  of  this  name  for  his  own  heroine,  Rich- 
ardson by  and  by  was  to  show  still  further  evidence  of  the  influ- 
ence exerted  by  Sidney's  romance.  By  the  force  of  circumstance, 
Prince  Musidorus  dons  a  shepherd's  garb,  while  Prince  Pyrocles 
is  compelled  to  assume  the  disguise  of  an  Amazon,  and  appears 
so  femininely  beautiful  in  this  character  that  King  Basilius  now 
falls  desperately  in  love  with  him ;  the  old  king's  passion  is  not, 
however,  so  disastrous  in  its  consequences  as  is  that  of  his  queen, 
who  is  not  deceived  by  the  disguise,  but  succumbs  completely  to 
the  hero  whom  she  discerns.  The  defects  of  the  "  Arcadia  '^  are 
those  which  prevail  universally  in  the  fiction  of  the  time,  —  an 
artificiality  and  a  want  of  realism  which  characterized  all  these 
works  alike,  and  which  appear  indeed  to  be  the  very  quali- 
ties that  gave  them  interest  and  popularity.  The  *'  Arcadia " 
became  the  most  admired  romance  of  its  day,  and  was  read 
and  re-read  in  the  home  and  at  the  court,  until  the  fine  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  surrounded  Elizabeth  affected  the  language  and 
conceits  of  "Arcadia"  as  they  had  formerly  aped  the  antithetical 
extravagance  of  "  Euphues." 

If  now  we  review  briefly  all  that  has  been  said,  and  attempt  to 
characterize  these  works  as  a  class,  inquiring  as  to  the  influences 
that  contributed  to  their  origin,  we  notice,  first,  that 
nearly  all  were  couched  in  a  peculiar,  fantastic  form  ^^^^^^" 
of  prose ;  and,  secondly,  that  as  a  group  they  are 
narratives  of  a  life  supposed  to  be  contemporaneous,  although  for 
the  most  part  utterly  separated  from  regions  of  the  real,  and  set  in 
the  shepherd  lands  of  Arcadia,  or  in  some  wildwood  of  Arden, 
remote  from  the  ordinary  and  familiar  haunts  of  men.  The  few 
realistic  novels  —  if  we  have  a  right  to  apply  that  title  to  any  of 
the  fiction  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  two  or  three  by  Greene 
and  Nash  describing  the  Ned  Browns  and  the  Jack  Wiltons  of 
the  period  —  are  exceptions  to  the  rule,  and  as  examples  of  real- 
ism are  conspicuous  because  of  their  rarity.  It  is  the  euphuistic 
and  Arcadian  romance  that  sets  the  model  for  the  literature  of 
that  day ;  indeed,  we  might  go  further,  and  declare  that,  broadly 
speaking,  these  improbable,  these  extravagant,  these  unreal  crea- 

3 


34  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

tions  were  typical  of  the  time  itself,  and  even  reflect  the  character 
and  spirit  of  the  time  as  accurately  and  as  clearly  as  the  most 
reahstic  novels  of  common  life  could  have  done,  or  as  do  the 
licentious  dramas  of  the  Restoration  reveal  the  rampant  license 
of  the  reign  of  the  second  Charles. 

In  some  directions  the  era  of  Elizabeth  was  an  era  of  extrava- 
gance if  not  of  excess.  The  English  nation  had  fairly  attained 
its  greatness,  and  its  confidence  in  itself  had  been 
beSiS^Aee  confirmed.  The  Church  had  thrown  off  its  allegiance 
to  the  Papacy,  and  the  State  had  maintained  its  inde- 
pendence of  Rome.  Rich  colonies  had  been  established ;  an 
English  sailor  had  circumnavigated  the  globe ;  naval  victories 
had  been  gloriously  won  against  surprising  odds;  the  Great 
Armada  had  been  driven  ignominiously  back  to  Spain ;  Britain 
was  undisputed  mistress  of  the  sea.  Never  yet  had  the  kingdom 
stood  so  comfortably  and  confidently  on  her  feet.  Moreover, 
England  was  ruled  now  by  a  queen  who,  whatever  we  may  feel 
concerning  her  aspirations  or  her  character,  was  not  only  herself 
imbued  with  the  romantic  spirit  of  the  sunset  days  of  chivalry, 
but  beyond  a  doubt  inspired  in  the  responsive  breasts  of  the 
high-spirited,  warm-blooded  knights  about  her  that  same  passion 
of  chivalry,  that  almost  idyllic  worship  of  herself  as  England's 
queen,  that  throws  a  glow  of  idealism  on  the  characters  of  Raleigh 
and  Essex  and  Sidney,  with  those  other  knights  of  lesser  name 
and  equal  spirit,  and  makes  the  era  of  Elizabeth  heroic.  These 
were  the  type  men  of  the  time  :  Raleigh,  the  bold  adventurer, 
explorer,  soldier,  leading  the  court  in  gallantry  as  he  throws  his 
purple  cloak  to  spare  the  jewelled  slipper  of  his  queen  from  con- 
tact with  the  muddy  streets  of  London  ;  Devereux,  Earl  of  Essex, 
now  the  petted  favorite  of  his  royal  mistress,  now  in  a  boyish 
fury  of  bravado  flinging  himself  at  the  head  of  a  conspiracy  to 
make  her  prisoner;  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  inditing  ardent  sonnets 
to  his  lost  love,  and  pushing  the  water  from  his  fevered  lips  at 
Zutphen  because  a  poor  private  "  had  the  greater  need."  These 
men  felt  the  spirit  of  the  time,  and  each  in  his  way  obeyed  the 
impulse  that  was  irresistible.     It  was  no  wonder  that  a  feverish 


ROMANCE   AT  THE   COURT  OF  ELIZABETH.  35 

exaltation  held  them ;  that  a  luxuriant  improvidence,  a  wild  ex- 
travagance was  characteristic  of  the  age.  Young  men  scarce  out 
of  boyhood  embarked  on  great  ventures,  vast  fortunes  were 
squandered  as  rapidly  as  they  had  been  gathered;  and  the 
extravagance  and  excess  were  as  the  reckless  indiscretions  of  a 
vigorous  and  affluent  youth  who  has  entered  his  heritage,  and 
stands  free  of  all  restraint. 

Is  it  likely  that  such  a  public  would  be  absorbed  in  analyses  of 
character,  or  is  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that  quiet  scenes  of 
homely  life  would  have  held  their  interest  or  atten- 
tion? The  ordinary,  the  probable,  —  that  was  the  gpMt!"^^^"^ 
very  thing  they  cared  least  about ;  it  was  not  a  day 
of  realism,  but  of  romance.  The  very  scene  of  their  fictions 
must  be  as  far  removed  as  possible  from  localities  familiar ;  there 
was  a  charm  about  the  thought  of  lovers  who  tended  sheep  in 
Arcady,  that  favorite  haunt  of  shepherds  and  lovelorn  swains  in 
the  world  of  imagination.  But  even  here  there  was  no  pretension 
of  reality ;  everybody  knew  that  when  a  hero  or  heroine  appeared 
with  pipe  or  crook  by  the  grassy  bank  of  some  Arcadian  stream- 
let, it  was  only  in  a  pleasant  masquerade ;  and  no  one  was  a  whit 
the  more  deceived  by  the  costume  of  the  shepherdesses  and  the 
bleatings  of  the  white-fleeced  lambs,  than  by  the  fetes  and  masques 
which  formed  no  unimportant  or  infrequent  diversion  of  the 
court.  The  costumes  were  of  rich  material,  and  stiff  with  gems ; 
the  soft  white  wool  upon  the  "  seely  sheepe "  had  been  well 
washed  and  combed  before  the  curtain  rose.  But  this  was  all 
poetical,  let  who  will  deny  its  charm,  or  laugh  it  into  ridicule.  It 
was  all  as  pretty  as  a  picture  ;  and  that  is  what  it  was,  an  idyll. 
Things  came  right  at  last  in  Arcady ;  and  those  who  sought  the 
greenwood  of  Arden  found  each  his  just  desert  in  the  end.  That 
pleased  the  people  who  read  stories  in  Queen  Eliza's  day ;  and  if 
lions  were  encountered  in  French  forests,  or  did  ships  sail  into 
Bohemia  direct,  what  need  of  criticism  or  of  doubt?  To  them 
the  romancer  was  indeed  a  wizard,  —  he  was  creator  of  men  and 
women ;  and  where  he  placed  them  there  they  were,  and  what 
he  bade  them  that  they  did.     This  is  the  reign  of  the  imagina- 


36  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

tion,  but  of  imagination  ungoverned  and  untrained.  The  "  Faerie 
Queene  '*  was  intensely  typical  of  the  era.  It  is  too  late  to  speak 
of  it  as  a  link  in  the  development  of  the  novel,  for  now  we  are 
beyond  that  stage  of  story-telling  ;  but  as  a  poem,  full  of  chivalric 
devotion  to  the  Virgin  Queen  of  England,  and  of  man's  best  as- 
pirations for  his  country  and  himself,  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene," 
with  all  the  romantic  character  and  incident  of  its  scenes,  is  the 
embodiment  in  verse  of  the  spirit  of  the  age.  And  Shakespeare's 
dramas,  from  the  airy  fantasy  of  the  "  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  " 
to  the  wild  impetuosity  and  superb  fataUty  of  "  Macbeth,"  are,  in 
their  marvellous  conceptions  and  their  robust  turbulence  of  ex- 
pression, but  the  natural  outburst  of  its  passion.  The  age  and  its 
romance  are  intertwined  and  complementary ;  the  two  are  one. 


THE  RISE   OF   THE  NOVEL.  37 


III. 

THE  RISE  OF   THE   NOVEL. 

From  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  to  the  end  of  the 
seventeenth  there  is  a  dearth  in  the  department  of  Enghsh  prose 
fiction.  This  long  period  of  inactivity  emphasizes  ^^^ 
yet  more  distinctly  the  wide  difference  in  character  Seventeenth 
between  the  fanciful  creations  of  the  Elizabethan  ^^^^^^• 
romancers  and  the  more  realistic  portrayals  of  the  novelists 
who  were  yet  to  be.  In  Spain  the  serious  romance  made 
some  progress,  developing  slightly  through  the  historical  tales 
which  flourished  contemporaneously  with  the  pastorals  and 
fictions  of  low  life ;  in  France,  also,  a  number  of  serious  works 
appeared,  the  most  notable  being  the  "  Cassandre,"  the  "  CMo- 
patre,"  and  the  "Pharamond"  of  La  Calprenede  (1602-1663), 
and  the  "  Grand  Cyrus  "  of  Madeleine  de  Scud^ry  (1607-1701)  ; 
but  nothing  of  this  kind  is  to  be  found  in  England.  Between  the 
literatures  of  the  sixteenth  and  the  eighteenth  centuries  there,  two 
literary  epochs  intervene,  —  the  one  dominated  by  the  spirit  of 
Puritanism,  the  other  characterized  by  the  license  of  the  Restora- 
tion. It  was  the  age  of  Milton  and  Bunyan  on  the  one  hand,  of 
Butler  and  Dryden  on  the  other ;  it  was  also  the  day  of  Wycherly 
and  Congreve,  and  the  crew  of  lesser  Restoration  dramatists^^^^^;:^:?^ 
Two  women,  Mrs.  Manley  and  Mrs.  Aphra  Behn,  produced  a  few"^ 
mediocre  novels  in  the  latter  portion  of  the  century ;  but  these 
were  rather  contributions  to  the  vicious  product  of  a  degraded 
and  unblushing  public  taste  than  to  the  progress  of  their  art. 
There  was,  however,  one  work  which  helps  to  bridge  the  gap 
of  this  seventeenth  century;  and  this  work  was  a  product  of 
Puritanism. 


38  STUDY  OF  EJSGLISH  FICTION. 

The  *'  Pilgrim's  Progress"  of  John  Bunyan  (1628-1688)  is  an 
allegory ;  but  it  is  so  true  to  human  nature,  so  full  of  human  expe- 
Bunvan's  ri^nce,  that  really  it  marks  a  great  stride  forward.  The 
Pilgrim's  fictions  of  Elizabeth's  day  were  confessedly  fictions  of 
Progress.  ^j^^  impossible  ;  here  was  a  fiction  of  reality,  although 
the  fictitious  character  of  its  machinery  was  not  disguised.  Here 
man  contended,  persevered,  and  triumphed.  He  was  beset  by  the 
same  difficulties,  the  same  demands,  the  same  temptations  that  all 
men  experience.  Doubting  Castle,  the  Slough  of  Despond,  Van- 
ity Fair,  —  we  all  of  us  know  these  places  ;  they  seem  more  real  to 
us  than  do  Arcadia  or  Arden,  even  though  they  be  likewise  alle- 
gory. John  Bunyan,  rough  vagrant  tinker  that  he  had  been, 
unlearned  but  for  the  homely  wisdom  of  the  Scriptures  and  that 
inborn  genius  for  the  comprehending  of  humanity  that  Chaucer  and 
Shakespeare  had  before  him,  —  John  Bunyan,  reprobate  but  con- 
verted, dreamed  in  the  little  room  at  Bedford  Jail  a  dream  that 
made  his  prison  a  classic  place,  and  gave  England  of  the  seven- 
pteenth  century  its  one  true  picture  of  human  life  and  human  vic- 
/  tory.  We  cannot  doubt  that  many  a  devout  Puritan  of  Bunyan's 
day,  with  head  bent  over  the  record  of  Christian's  falls  and  Chris- 
tian's triumphs,  whispered  softly  to  himself,  as  tears  rolled  down 
his  cheeks,  "  It  is  I,  it  is  I  !  "  One  step  more,  and  but  one  step, 
was  needed  to  usher  in  the  novel ;  that  was  to  drop  the  allegory, 
and  to  paint  men  and  women  in  the  relations  familiar  to  us  and 
amid  the  surroundings  of  the  world  wherein  we  live. 

If  the  seventeenth  century  appears  remarkable   for  its  lack  of 
interest  and  effort   in  the  art  of  fiction,  the  eighteenth  is  as  cer- 
tainly distinguished  by  most  notable  beginnings  and 
achievements  in  that   field.     The  novel  differs  very 
materially  from  the  unreal,  fantastical  creations  which  absorbed 
the  interest  of  Queen  Elizabeth's   subjects,  and  helped  to  satisfy 
.^    the  extravagant  appetite  of   that   romantic   and    exuberant    age. 
^The  English  novel,  which  takes  its  rise  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
is  a  picture  of  life,  a  story  of  manners ;  sometimes  a  narrative  of 
adventure,  more  often  a  record  of  domestic  experience,  with  its 
daily  events  of  joy  or  sorrow,  its  failures  and  successes.     In  its 


THE  RISE   OF  THE  NOVEL.  39 

highest  development,  the  novel  presents  to  us  not  a  mere  succes- 
sion of  incidents,  but  an  accurate  study  of  character :  it  may 
develop  extreme  ingenuity  and  dramatic  intensity  of  situation  and 
of  plot ;  but  it  must  not  depend  upon  this  alone  for  its  interest, 
and  there  are  obvious  bounds  of  probability  and  taste  which  must 
not  be  transgressed.  As  was  natural  enough,  there  were  many 
experiments  in  this  particular  field  before  the  story-teller  acquired 
the  insight  and  the  art  to  produce  the  perfect  novel :  there  are 
those  who  claim  to-day  that  this  art  and  this  perfection  have  been 
attained  not  even  yet,  and  that  the  true  painter  of  life  and  men  is 
still  to  come. 

It  is  a  rather  singular  circumstance  that  we  have  in  our  litera- 
ture one  well-drawn  character  —  fulfilling  all  the  requirements  of  a 
*'  study  "  from  the  life,  one  of  our  important  and  most 
classic  characters  indeed  —  existing  entirely  outside  ^^^^^' 
the  pages  of  a  novel,  a  drama,  or  of    any  formal 
fiction.     This  is  genial,  worthy  old  Sir  Rojger  de  Coverley,  who 
in  the  year  1 7 1 1  strolled  into  England  quietly  and  unannounced, 
introduced  and   hospitably  entertained  by  Joseph  Addison  and 
Richard  Steele.    Addison,  it  is  true,  produced  no  novel ;  he  did  as 
great  a  thing,  for  he  drew  a  character  so  strongly  individualized, 
so  amiable  in  its  attributes,  that  it  has  lived  from  that  day  to  ours 
one  of  the  best  beloved  in  English  fiction.     Thus  Joseph  Addison 
may  be  regarded  as  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  century  suggesting 
if  not  inventing  the  novel  form,  and  as  setting  a  pattern  in  the 
portrayal  of  real  character  which  has  rarely  been  surpassed. 

It  is  an  open  question  whether  the  title  of  first  English  novelist 

does  not  belong  of  right  to  Daniel  Defoe  ( 1 66  i-i  731).  This  man's 

character  in  life  was  so  singular  and  so  abnormal  that 

.  ,   ,  .  .  ,    Daniel  Defoe, 

some  acquamtance  with  his  career  is  necessary  to  a  real 

appreciation  of  his  power  and  place.    Defoe  was  a  butcher's  son. 

His  father  always  wrote  his  name    Foe ;    the   son  adopted  the 

aristocratic  prefix,  for  some  good  reason  doubtless,  and  wrote  his 

name  De  Foe.     But  the  butcher's  son  entered  not  ill  equipped 

on  his  career.      He  received  a  good    education,  was  master   of 

five  languages,  and,  better  still,  was  endowed  with  an  extraordinary 


40  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

degree  of  enterprise  and  pluck.  His  course  was  one  of  vicissi- 
tudes. In  business  he  was  a  tilemaker,  sometimes  prosperous,  often 
in  want ;  at  one  period  he  maintained  a  great  establishment,  at 
another  he  was  in  hiding  from  his  creditors  :  however,  these  are 
every-day  experiences.  It  was  in  the  field  of  politics  that  Defoe 
was  especially  distinguished.  For  his  attacks  upon  the  govern- 
ment he  was  frequently  in  disgrace ;  by  some  clever  turn  of  his 
pen,  as  often  restored  to  favor  and  at  times  in  government  employ. 
One  of  his  pamphlets  gave  great  offence,  and  brought  him  to  the 
pillory.  Instead  of  the  expected  derision  and  abuse,  the  popu- 
lace, whose  hearts  he  had  won  by  the  opportune  publication  of  a 
stirring  political  ballad,  made  him  their  hero,  and  his  exposure 
was  the  signal  for  cheers  and  flowers  and  a  popular  ovation.  He 
became  an  able  journalist  as  well  as  a  pamphleteer,  editing  for 
several  years  a  little  paper  written  and  published  by  himself.  A 
chance  imprisonment  meanwhile  did  not  interrupt  the  publication 
of  his  sheet,  which  made  its  appearance  daily  from  the  cell  where 
he  was  detained  as  prisoner.  In  1 704  Defoe  began  the  publi- 
cation of  "  The  Review,"  at  first  as  a  weekly,  although  it  after- 
wards appeared  three  and  then  five  times  a  week.  This  germ  of 
the  modern  daily  newspaper  was  political  in  character,  but  main- 
tained one  department  which  bore  the  suggestive  title  of  "  The 
Scandal  Club."  It  continued  in  great  favor  for  eight  years,  and 
was  doubtless  the  suggestion,  if  not  the  pattern,  of  the  "Tatlers," 
"  Spectators/*  and  *'  Ramblers  "  which  were  so  soon  to  follow. 
This  singular  man  was  shrewd  enough  to  hoodwink  all  the  party 
leaders  of  his  day ;  and  for  ten  years  contrived  to  serve  a  whig 
government  under  the  guise  of  a  tory,  maintaining  his  connec- 
tion, unsuspected  by  the  tories,  with  a  partisan  paper  which  he 
continued  to  publish  in  the  tory  interests,  suppressing,  however, 
the   more  bitter  attacks  upon  the  whigs. 

From  these  experiences,  Defoe  gained  a  marvellous  knowledge 
of  men ;  in  this  respect  it  has  been  claimed  that  he  surpasses 
Shakespeare.  He  had  the  journahst's  faculty  for  seeing  what 
was  of  interest  to  the  people,  and  the  skill  to  stimulate  that  inter- 
est to  his  own  advantage.    It  cannot  be  denied  that  he  concocted 


THE   RISK    OF   THE   NOVEL,  '    4I 

news  most  unblushingly,  and  that  he  was  an  adept  in  preparing 
the  market  for  his  wares.  The  notorious  Jack  Sheppard  was 
tried  and  held  for  execution.  Defoe  claimed  to  have 
obtained  an  interview,  and  published  a  highly  colored  te^e^!^^" 
and  extremely  salable  "  autobiography,"  the  only 
authoritative  work  known  !  There  was  a  story  in  circulation  about 
the  appearance  to  her  friend  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Veal  who,  it  was  after- 
wards learned,  had  comfortably  died  a  few  days  before.  Defoe 
provided  an  account  of  the  apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal,  as  minute  in 
its  circumstantial  character  as  any  of  the  veracious  productions  of 
this  order  in  our  own  day.  It  was  reported  that  a  volcanic  disturb- 
ance somewhere  in  the  ocean  had  caused  the  disappearance  of  a 
well-known  island.  Our  enterprising  journalist  was  able  at  once 
to  furnish  his  startled  readers  with  a  full  account  of  all  the  attend- 
ing phenomena  from  the  pen  of  one  who  had  been  a  spectator 
of  the  eruption  and  its  effects.  Now  these  were  all  clever  inven- 
tions, yet  they  read  marvellously  like  truth.  But,  says  the  reader, 
this  was  lying ;  why  speak  with  tacit  approbation  of  work  like 
this?  For  the  reason,  briefly,  that  without  these  steps  in  Defoe's 
development  we  might  never  have  heard  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe,'* 
or  possessed  a  "  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year."  Without  these 
fictitious  narratives  in  Defoe's  broadsides  we  might  have  had  to 
wait  till  later  even  than  Richardson  or  Fielding  for  the  appear- 
ance of  the  English  novel ;  but  now  it  was  close  at  hand.  An 
English  sailor  cast  away  on  the  island  of  Juan  Fernandez  h?s 
been  rescued  and  brought  home.  On  this  suggestion,  Defoe,  now 
in  his  fifty-eighth  or  fifty-ninth  year,  sits  down  to  tell  us  "  the 
life  and  strange  surprising  adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  of 
York,  Mariner."  Who  is  there  of  English-speaking  nationality 
—  unless  to  him,  indeed,  the  significance  and  the  delight  of  "  a 
story  "  has  been  haplessly  denied  —  that  has  not  pored  over  these 
same  strange,  surprising  adventures  of  this  famous  mariner  of 
York  !  Within  four  months  the  book  had  reached  its  iourth 
edition ;  and  since  the  day  of  its  appearance  its  popularity  has 
never  waned.  In  1720  appeared  the  "History  of  Duncan 
Campbell,"  the  "Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier, '  and  "Captain  Single- 


42  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

ton.**  During  the  four  years  following  were  published,  succes- 
sively, "  Moll  Flanders,"  ''  Colonel  Jack,"  "  Roxana."  The  famous 
'*  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year,"  although  not  a  novel  like  the  other 
works  mentioned,  belongs  to  the  same  period,  and  is  characterized 
by  the  same  qualities  of  style  and  method.  In  1731,  under 
obscure  and  melancholy  circumstances,  Defoe  died,  full  of  years 
and  works.  No  less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  distinct  publica- 
tions are  attributed  to  his  genius  and  industry. 

What,  now,   is  the  secret  of  Defoe-s  power,  the  key  to  his 

^^  method?     It.  is-  his  minute  attention   to   detail.     He    had   the 
power  as  few  writers  have  possessed  it  of  placing  him- 

. ^     '  self  in  the  position  of  the  character  he  was  describing 

and  of  noting  all  possible  attendant  circumstances.  Placed  thus 
and  thus,  he  would  say,  what  should  I  need  and  how  should  I 
provide?  And  thus  he  became  fertile  in  expedients.  Has  any 
one  forgotten  the  feeling  of  isolation  experienced  in  common  with 
the  shipwrecked  sailor,  or  how  we  rejoice  to  the  point  of  exul- 
tation upon  the  successful  completion  of  each  trip  to  the  wrecked 
vessel  that  adds  some  new  treasure  to  the  equipment  of  Crusoe's 
cabin  on  the  uninhabited  island  ?  An  able  critic,  William  Minto, 
points  out  Defoe's  discovery  that  narrative  should  be  plain  rather 
than  adorned.     He  chose  the  simplest,  plainest  language  at  com- 

/  mand/  and  thus  he  attained  *' the_  dulness  of  truth."  This 
statement  is  true  of  all  his  novels ;  it  will  be  recognized  as  pre- 
eminently true  of  his  most  popular  as  well  as  ablest  work.  The 
**  Journal  of  the  Plague"  is  so  circumstantial,  and  wears  upon  its 
pages  such  an  air  of  tmth  that  it  has  not  infrequently  been  taken 
for  a  bona  fide  diary  of  the  time.  Now  this  is  re  alls  711 ;  and  it  is 
this  quality  of  workmanship,  possessed  by  Defoe  in  such  unusual 
degree,  that  the  critics  have  in  mind  when  they  apply  in  its  tech- 
nical sense  the  term  realistic  to  some  novel  of  our  day.  There 
is  no  term  more  often  misapprehended  or  more  abused  than  this 
term  realism,  and  its  adjective  accompanying.  Daniel  Defoe 
was  a  realistic  writer,  and  his  works  were  realistic,  not  because 
many  of  the  narratives  were  sensational  and  dealt  with  types  of 
character  that  were  base  and  lewd,  but  because  by  careful  and 


THE   RISE   OF   THE   NOVEL.  43 

skillful  use  of  insignificant  details,  he  made  those  details  appear 
significant  of  reality,  and  succeeded  in  giving  his  most  startling 
fictions  an  air  of  actuality  and  of  truth.  This  is  what  it  is  to  be 
a  realist ;  and  it  is  noteworthy  that  our  earliest  novels  were 
reaHstic  novels.  Do  not  let  us  forget  the  true  meaning  of  the 
term.  The  realistic  quality  of  a  work  depends  not  so  much  upon 
the  choice  of  subject  as  upon  the  method  of  treatment.  The 
selection  of  material  and  the  final  effect  for  good  or  ill  is  a  matter 
of  the  noveHst's  philosophy ;  the  impression  of  unnaturalness  or, 
on  the  other  hand,  of  reahty  alone  suggests  the  quality  of  his  art. 
Were  these  works  of  fiction  novels  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
word?  If  by  that  term  we  mean  the  close  and  scientific  analysis 
of  human  character  or  the  artistic  portraiture  of  personages  and 
events  dramatic  or  historic,  it  is  not  possible  to  claim  that  title 
for  them ;  but  if  we  admit  within  the  'Hmits  of  the  term  studies 
more  or  less  accurate  of  special  phases  of  existence  and  the  ficti- 
tious narrative  of  imaginary  adventures,  then  Defoe  was  a  novelist, 
and  "  Robinson  Crusoe "  and  "  Moll  Flanders "  are  as  truly 
novels  as  is  Richardson's  "  Pamela "  or  Fielding's  "  Jonathan 
Wild." 

Verse  has  most  often  been  the  vehicle  by  which  the  satirist 
has  conveyed  his  censure   to  public  notice,  but  now  and  then  a 
great  prose  satire  has  found  its  way  into  literature, 
and   thus   the   world  has   gained  another  romance.  ]?t^^^ 
'*  Gargantua "     and    "  Pantagruel,"     the     grotesque 
creations  of  Rabelais,  Cervantes'  "  Don  Quixote,"  are  examples 
in  point.     No  survey  of  English  fiction  would  be  complete  with- 
out more  than  mention  of  the   strongest  satire   in  the   Englis'i 
language,  the  great  work  which  we  best  know  by  its  abbreviated 
title,  "  Gulliver's  Travels." 

Jonathan  Swift   (i667-«-i745)  was  born  in  Ireland,  although  of 
pure  English  parentage.     His  early  life  was  unfortunate  in  that 
for  a  period  Swift  found  himself  dependent  upon  the 
generosity  of  others  rather  than  upon  his  own  abili-   Jf^GiuS^er. 
ties,  which  he  knew  were  unusual.     He  seems  to  have 
been  by  nature  unhappy   and  morbidly  self-conscious.     Disap- 


\^ 


44  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

pointments  cluster  in  his  life ;  an  unfortunate  love-episode  is 
commonly  assumed  to  have  occurred  in  his  career.  At  last 
made  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's  in  Dublin,  Swift  reached  the  high- 
est material  recognition  that  it  was  his  lot  to  win,  although 
his  expectations  and  his  genius  clearly  looked  to  higher  attain- 
ment. The  experiences  of  life  served  mainly  to  imbitter  the 
spirit  and  to  intensify  the  morbidness  of  the  man,  while  his 
peculiarities  of  temperament  and  his  predisposition  to  brain- 
disease  were  aggravated  by  disappointed  ambition  and  ill-treat- 
ment from  those  he  would  have  served.  As  in  the  case  of  Defoe, 
Swift  turned  his  mind  to  poUtics,  for  which  he  had  even  a  greater 
genius.  Several  scathing  pamphlets  on  rehgious  and  poHtical 
questions  bore  early  witness  to  his  power  of  satire.  In  17.26 
Dean  Swift's  greatest  work  appeared,  and  the  world  became 
acquainted  with  the  extraordinary  adventures  of  Captain  Lemuel 
/^  jSliUi^^j  in  the  light  of  whose  experiences  that  other  distinguished 
mariner,  Robinson  Crusoe,  was  a  very  common  sort  of  man 
indeed.  In  this  work  Jonathan  Swift  appears  as  one  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  English  we  have  ever  had ;  as  endowed  with 
an  imaginative  genius  inferior  to  few ;  as  a  keen  and  pitiless  critic 
of  the  world,  and  a  bitter  misanthropic  accounter  of  humanity 
at  large.  Dean  Swift  was  indeed  a  misanthrope  by  theory,  how- 
ever he  may  have  made  exception  in  private  life.  His  hero, 
Gulliver,  discovers  race  after  race  of  beings,  who  typify  the  genera 
in  his  classification  of  mankind.  Extremely  diverting  are  Gul- 
liver's adventures  among  the  tiny  Lilliputians ;  only  less  so  are 
his  more  perilous  encounters  with  the  giants  of  Brobdignag ;  but 
we  do  not  quite  enjoy  the  record  of  his  discoveries  in  Laputa  or 
his  revelations  from  the  land  of  the  Houyhnhnms.  The  bitterness 
of  venom  is  in  these  satires.  By  a  singular  dispensation  of  Prov- 
idence we  usually  read  the  Travels  while  we  are  children ;  we 
are  delighted  with  the  marvellous  story,  we  are  not  at  all  injured 
by  the  poison.  Poor  Swift !  he  was  conscious  of  insanity's 
approach ;  he  repeated  annually  Job's  curse  upon  the  day  of  his 
birth ;  he  died  a  madman.  Contributing  more  than  he  perhaps 
intended  to  the  interest  in  works  of  fiction.  Dean  Swift  has  found 


THE   RISE  OF   THE   NOVEL.  45 

his  place,  and  a  not  unimportant  place,  in   the   history  of  the 
evolution  of  the  novel. 

We  are  all  familiar  with  the  story  of  Samuel  Richardson  (1689- 
1 761),    the  sedately   respectable    printer   and    bookseller,    who, 
oddly  enough,  when  just  turned  fifty  took  to  writing 
love-stories ;  and  who  in  the  minds   of  many   is  in-  IfJ?^! 
vested  with  the  title  of  first  English  novelist,  an  honor 
we  would  dispute  in  favor  of  Defoe.     To  be  sure,  Richardson  did 
not   seize   the  pen   of  the  story-teller  without  our  being  able  to  ' 
account  for  the  seeming  vagary;  for  he  had'served  his  apprentice- 
ship in  the  art  just  as  truly  as  his  predecessor  had  done  twenty 
years  before.     That  is  a  very  attractive  page  in  the  record  of  our 
literature  which  presents  to  us  the  portrait  of  the  warm-hearted, 
'romantically  inclined  young  printer's  lad  inditing,  in  phraseology 
worthy  the  tender  theme,  love-letters  for  his  girl-friends  whose 
admiration  for  his  epistolary  skill  and  whose  bashful  confidence 
in  his  discretion  brought  them  to  him  for  an  expression  of  the 
sentiment  they  would  not  wholly  hide,  yet  trembled  to  reveal. 
It  was  not  unnatural,  therefore,  that  'by  and  by  we  should  discover 
this  practised   correspondent  consenting  "  to  write  a  little  book 
of  familiar  letters  on  the  useful  concerns  of  common  life,"  a  work 
suggested  by  a  brother-publisher.     Then  it  was  that  Richardson 
caught  the   idea  of  embodying  vital  interest  as  well  as  practical 
admonition  in  the   execution  of  the  plan ;  and  basing  his  plot 
upon  the  adventure  of  a  young  woman  in  the  North,  an  expe- 
rience which  was  actual,  he  gave  to  the  world  in  the  year  ijj.Q  /' 
the  story  of  "  Pamela,  or  Virtue  Rewarded." 

Defoe  had  employed  in  his  stories  the  machinery  of  a  fictitious 
autobiography.  Richardson  followed  the  same  method,  but  threw 
his  material  into  the  form  of  correspondence.  Pamela 
Andrews,  the  heroine  of  his  novel,  is  left,  through  the 
death  of  a  good  woman  who  has  befriended  her,  somewhat  in 
the  power  of  her  benefactress's  son.  This  gentleman,  a  type  of 
the  fashionable  man  of  the  world  in  that  day,  makes  various  as- 
saults upon  the  honor  of  the  young  woman,  whose  character  is 
most   exemplary,    and  who    successfully  repulses   his   advances. 


% 

46  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

although  compelled  by  circumstances  to  submit  to  endless  per- 
secution. Finally,  however,  Pamela's  virtue  is  "  rewarded  "  by 
the  complete  conversion  of  the  reprobate  '^  Mr.  B.,"  as  he  is 
called,  and  the  offer  of  an  honorable  marriage,  which  the  trium- 
phant maiden  modestly  and  joyfully  accepts.  Sidney  Lanier, 
one  of  our  keenest  critics,  inquires  pertinently.  Why  not  vice^ 
instead  of  virtue^  rewarded?  and  thinks  that  it  is  Mr.  B.  who 
gets  the  reward  rather  than  the  poor  pure-minded  girl  whose 
life  he  has  made  wretched  almost  to  the  point  of  death  with 
his  unmanly  persecutions.  They  saw  things  differently  in  the 
middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  apparently;  and  besides  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  novel-writing  was  in  its  days  of 
infancy,  and  that  analysis  and  criticism  must  not  be  unduly 
searching  or  severe.  Along  with  its  uncouthness,  moreover, 
Richardson's  novel  is  not  without  some  excellent  features  of 
its  own.  It  is  .prolix  to  tediousness,  but  there  is  at  the  same 
time  considerable  ingenuity  in  invention.  There  is  an  almost 
painful  elaboration  of  expression,  and  the  phraseology  is  stilted, 
but  there  is  consistency  in  the  portraits,  and  the  attempt  at  char- 
acter painting  is  not  without  a  degree  of  success.  Pamela  exerts 
a  steady  influence  for  good,  until  all  about  her  are  converted  by  . 
the  power  of  her  example.  The  wicked  Mr.  B.  succumbs,  and 
even  the  notorious  Mrs.  Jewkes  is  won  to  penitence  and  the  path 
of  virtue.  It  is  the  fashion  to  laugh,  as  Fielding  did,  at  this 
tedious,  moralizing,  sentimental  story ;  and  yet  there  is  a  good 
deal  in  it  that  is  both  homely  and  wholesome.  Richardson 
plainly  did  not  possess  the  art  that  may  be  claimed  by  Fielding 
or  Smollett  or  Sterne ;  but  he  was  sincere,  and  honestly  pure  in 
his  aim,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  any  one  of  the  other 
three. 

Critics  have  been,  as  usual,  divergent  in  their  estimate  of  the 
comparative  merit  of  Richardson's  novels.  Of  those  who  have 
Clarissa  Har-  found  worth  in  any  of  his  works,  some  have  spoken 
SiTcharies  ^^^^  approvingly  of  "  Pamela,"  others  have  accorded 
Grandison.  to  **  Clarissa  Harlowe  "  the  foremost  place.  In  this 
latter  novel  Richardson  describes  another  contest  between  vice 


THE  RISE   OF  THE  NOVEL. 


47 


/ 


and  virtue.  This  heroine  has  to  contend  against  the  brutality  oi 
her  own  heartless  relatives,  who  insist  upon  her  marriage  with  a 
man  whom  she  detests ;  her  trials  are  also  intensified  by  the  most 
persistent  persecutions  of  the  profligate  Lovelace,  who  is  a  well- 
drawn  type  of  the  cruelly  selfish  and  licentroirs  man-of-the-world 
in  that  day.  Of  one  thing  we  may  well  be  certain,  Richardson's 
sympathy  with  womanhood  was  genuine  and  intelligent ;  and  his 
constant  recognition  of  her  dignity  and  her  right  is  worthy  of 
more  praise  than  it  has  yet  received.  No  wonder  that  our  novel- 
ist should  have  attempted  finally  to  give  the  world  his  own  con- 
ception of  what  a  "  gentleman "  should  be.  In  "  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,"  the  author  of  "Pamela"  and  "Clarissa  Harlowe," 
types  of  womanly  virtue  and  Christian  character,  paints  "  a  man 
of  true  honor  "  for  our  edification  and  delight.  "  Could  he  be 
otherwise  than  the  best  of  husbands,  who  was  the  most  dutiful  of 
sons ;  who  is  the  most  affectionate  of  brothers ;  the  most  faithful 
of  friends  :  who  is  good  upon  principle  in  every  relation  of  life  !  " 
Thus  exclaims  the  hero's  wife,  when  at  the  completion  of  the 
story  she  is  rewarded  for  her  virtues  by  the  bestowal  of  this 
paragon  upon  her  happy  self.  The  truth  is,  that  with  Richard- 
son the  purpose  was  very  strong  and  the  art  extremely  weak ; 
consequently  his  novels  impress  us  as  prosy  sermonizing,  although 
his  true  heart  and  honest  endeavor  command  our  high  esteem. 
"To  inculcate  religion  and  morality  in  an  easy  and  agreeable 
manner  and  to  make  vice  odious,",^  this  was  the  purpose  which 
in  the  preface  to  "  Pamela  "  Richardson  plainly  avowed. 

Henry  Fielding  (i 707-1 754),  whose  name  is  oftenest  spoken 
in  close  connection  with  that  of  his  contemporary  and  rival,  Rich- 
ardson, was  a  man  of  very  different  mold.     He  was 
of  the  aristocracy,  had  been  educated  at  Eton,  and  ^^|^g 
had  studied  law  at  Leyden.     He  was  a  writer  of  comic 
plays ;  lived  a  gay,  reckless  life,  and  in  three  years  had  squan- 
dered his  own  and  his  wife's  property.     Although  admitted  to 
the  bar  in  1 740,  he  was  never  successful  as  a  lawyer.     Fielding 
became  a  writer  to  support  his  family;    he  became  a  novelist 
to   ridicule   the   author  of  "  Pamela."     It  was   natural   enough 


48  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION'. 

that  Fielding  should  laugh  at  Richardson.  While  lacking  the 
refined  sympathy  of  a  thoroughly  pure  and  virtuous  character, 
and  hence  the  ability  to  appreciate  the  latter's  aim,  or  to  recog- 
nize the  actual  merit  of  his  performance,  Fielding  did  possess  the 
taste  of  an  artist,  and  the  perception  to  see  at  once  that  the  stilted 
heroine,  Pamela,  and  the  stiffly  moving  figures  associated  with  her, 
while  heralded  as  real,  produced  the  effect  of  puppets  who  moved 
mechanically  and  awkwardly  as  the  appropriate  strings  were 
jerked. 

There  was  something  almost  spiteful  in  the  suddenness  with 
which  he  took  up  the  cudgel,  and  in  the  scheme  which  he 
evolved.  "Joseph  Andrews"  (1742)  was  begun  as  a 
J^drews  Parody  upon  "  Pamela."  In  Fielding's  story,  Joseph 
is  presented  as  the  brother  of  Richardson's  heroine, 
and  is  discovered  under  circumstances  similar  to  those  in  which 
the  girl  was  placed,  of  course  with  a  complete  reversal  of  condi- 
tions. Joseph's  master  has  died,  and  it  is  the  widow  who  perse- 
cutes the  young  man  with  her  attentions.  The  story  turns  upon 
Joseph's  rejection  of  her  overtures,  and  the  various  fortunes  and 
misfortunes  of  the  hero  until  he  is  happily  wedded  to  the  girl 
of  his  choice.  Fortunately  for  Fielding's  fame  as  a  novelist,  he 
seems  to  have  quickly  forgotten  his  first  object,  that  of  ridicule, 
and  to  have  become  honestly  interested  in  the  fortunes  of  his 
characters.  To  be  sure,  he  depicted  them  with  all  the  untram- 
melled freedom  and  boisterous  rudeness  of  his  day,  and,  it  may 
as  well  be  added,  of  his  personality.  The  novel  is  full  of  coarse- 
ness, and  the  humor  is  mainly  that  of  horse-play ;  but  delicate 
sensibility  was  not  a  characteristic  of  that  age,  and  Fielding 
doubtless  obeyed  an  important  law  when  he  painted  things  in  the 
colors  of  his  time.  This  admission,  however,  does  not  condone 
the  absolute  obscenity  which  frequently  intrudes,  with  evident 
relish  of  design,  upon  his  pages ;  nor  can  we  forget  that  Fielding 
with  his  laxity  was  but  preparing  the  way  for  Smollett  and  Sterne, 
in  whose  hands  vice  and  vileness  become  not  only  humorous  but 
admirable. 

There  are  able  critics  who  class  "Joseph  Andrews  "  and  "Tom 


THE  RISE   OF  THE  NOVEL.  49 

Jones"  (1749)  as  among  the  best  novels  ever  written.  They 
say  that  these  stories,  although  blunt  and  gross,  are  x^dolent  ol 
nature  and  reality^- that  the  Hcense  is  but  the  frankness^ 
of  the  time^  and  that  the  influence  of.  the^aiithor^tbe  ^|*""^'* 
atmosphere  of  the  scene,  are,  in  design  and  effect,  not- 
Jmmoral,  but  the  contrary )  that  Fielding,  through  the  faithful  real- 
ism of  his  picture,  was  artistically  striving  to  serve  the  cause .  of 
morality  and  virtue  in  his  day.  But  even  admitting  the  obvious 
injustice  of  rigorously  comparing  the  morality  of  Fielding's  novels 
with  the  standard  now  demanded  of  the  writers  of  similar  works,  we 
should  still  be  inclined  to  question  the  claims  made  by  the  more 
extravagant  admirers  of  the  early  novelist.  There  are  many  novels 
since  Fielding's  time  which  have  surpassed  his  stories  in  both  plot 
and  character  delineation.  The  most  enjoyable  personality  in 
"Joseph  Andrews"  is  Parson  Adams;  and  Parson  Adams  is  a 
caricature  rather  than  reality.  "  Tom  Jones  "  is,  confessedly,  Field- 
ing's masterpiece ;  yet,  in  spite  of  much  inordinate  praise,  it  is,  as 
a  novel,  by  no  means  beyond  the  reach  of  criticism.  It  is  as  long 
drawn  out  as  is  "  Pamela ;  "  and  although  the  incidents  are  vigor- 
ous and  the  action  brisk,  there  are  several  episodes  which  are 
entirely  superfluous  in  the  development  of  character  or  plot : 
such  is  the  introduction  of  the  elder  Blifil,  of  the  truculent  Fitz- 
patrick,  and  of  the  eccentric  old  "  Man  of  the  Hill,"  whose  pres- 
ence in  the  narrative  is  utterly  unaccountable.  There  is  a  singular 
inconsistency  also  in  the  novehst's  treatment  of  his  leading  char- 
acter. Theoretically,  Fielding  denies  the  existence  of  the  typical 
hero  as  comnionly  conceived,  and  is,  of  course,  warmly  applauded 
by  the  great  Mr.  Thackeray  for  his  opportune  discovery ;  but,  as 
matter  of  fact.  Fielding  does  make  a  hero  out  of  Tom  Jones,  and,| 
from  beginning  to  end,  very  obviously  exalts  into  heroic  attributes 
the  very  vices  which  he  politely  deprecates  and  for  which  he  art- 
fully apologizes.  The  truth  is,  that  while  Fielding  thus  displays 
the  manners  of  the  times,  he  chooses  from  preference  and  sym- 
pathy to  depict  the  bad  manners  of  his  time  rather  than  the  best. 
Perhaps  we  need  not  quarrel  with  the  author's  taste  :  he  certainly 
comprehended  life  and  character,  and  was  in  his  art,  when  that 

4 


50  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION: 

was  at  its  highest,  far  in  advance  of  his  rival  Richardson.  The 
author  of  "Joseph  Andrews"  and  "Tom  Jones"  may  not  be 
entitled  to  claim  the  highest  place  among  the  British  novehsts, 
but  he  certainly  deserves  to  rank  among  the  most  vigorous  and 
faithful,  as  he  is,  doubtless,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  English 
realists.  A  valuable  testimony  to  the  excellence  of  his  artistic  in- 
sight and  his  just  conception  of  the  novelist's  true  field  of  action 
is  afforded  in  a  paragraph  of  his  own  occurring  in  one  of  the 
fresh  and  piquant  essays  upon  things  in  general,  with  which,  hap- 
pily. Fielding  chose  to  introduce  the  successive  "  books  "  of  his 
novel  "  Tom  Jones."     Fielding  therein  says  :  — 

**  For  though  every  good  author  will  confine  himself  within  the 
bounds  of  probability,  it  is  by  no  means  necessary  that  his  characters, 
or  his  incidents,  should  be  trite,  common  or  vulgar ;  such  as  happen 
in  every  street,  or  in  every  house,  or  which  may  be  met  with  in  the 
home  articles  of  a  newspaper.  Nor  must  he  be  inhibited  from  show- 
ing many  persons  and  things,  which  may  possibly  have  never  fallen 
within  the  knowledge  of  great  part  of  his  readers.  If  the  writer 
strictly  observes  the  rules  above  mentioned,  he  hath  discharged  his 
part;  and  is  then  entitled  to  some  faith  from  his  reader,  who  is  indeed 
guilty  of  critical  infidelity  if  he  disbelieves  him."  i 

Since  Fielding's  day  many  longer  paragraphs  have  been  written 
on  this  theme,  containing  matter  less  apt  and  not  nearly  so  true. 
It  is  remarkable  that  the  limitations  of  the  modern  novel  should 
have  been  so  clearly  and  truthfully  formulated  at  so  early  a  stage 
in  its  development. 

In  "Jonathan  Wild"  (1743),  Fielding  was  working  along  the 
old  line  of  Defoe.  "Amelia"  (1751),  the  novelist's  last  work, 
is  intended  as  a  portrait  of  Fielding's  first  wife,  whom 
he  had  loved  devotedly,  and  for  whose  loss  he  re- 
mained inconsolable  until  not  long  after  her  death,  when  he 
married  her  maid. 

In  the  works  of  Smollett  and  Sterne  we  find  the  novel  in  a  sense 
degenerate.  It  has  fallen  from  the  level  where  Richardson  had 
placed  it,  and  where  by  Fielding,  even,  it  had  been  maintained ; 
instead   of  depicting  life  as   it  was  or  might  be,   these  writers 

1  Tom  Jones,  book  viii.  chap.  i.  ; . 


THE   RISE    OF   THE   NOVEL,  5 1 

simply  catered  to  the  demand  for  amusement,  and  amusement  of 

that  sort  furnished  by  impossible  heroes  who  are  profligates,  and 

who  engage  in  adventures  which  are    brutal  and  li- 

centipus.     Such  are  the  viands  served  in  the  works  of  ^moUett  and 

Sterne* 
Tobias  Smollett  (1721-1771),  a  Scotch  surgeon,  who 

turned  novelist  with  the  publication  of  "  Roderick  Random  "  in 
1748.  His  other  works  are  "Peregrine  Pickle  "  (1751),  "Count 
Fathom"  (1754),  "Sir  Launcelot  Graves"  (1762),  and  "Hum- 
phrey Clinker"  (1771).  There  is  no  great  character  in  the 
whole  collection ;  perhaps  not  one  that  has  found  a  place  of  per- 
manence in  literature.  The  case  is  somewhat  different  with 
Laurence  Sterne  (1713-1768).  Sterne  was  an  Irishman,  and  an 
officer  in  the  army ;  later,  he  entered  the  Church,  and  became 
Prebend  of  York.  Indeed,  he  published  six  volumes  of  sermons 
which  were  considered  edifying  by  polite  society  of  the  time; 
but  Sterne  was,  nevertheless,  a  sad  example  to  the  world  at  large, 
for  he  was  as  incorrigible  a  rogue  as  any  one  in  the  gay  life  about 
him.  Laurence  Sterne  was  a  born  humorist,  but  his  humor  was 
_^he  humor  of  whimsicality,  and  at  times  his  oddity  grows  weari- 
some. He  is  too  artful  to  be  sympathetic,  and  his  artifice  is  too 
obvious.  Besides,  he  is  over-fond  of  innuendo ;  slyly  playing 
back  and  forth,  he  now  pretends  an  innocence  more  impertinent 
than  diverting,  and  now  suggests  that  his  reader  is  deeper  in  the 
mire  than  he  is ;  always  exhibiting  a  genius  in  the  art  with  which 
he  stimulates  the  latent  wickedness  whose  presence  in  weak 
human  nature  this  worldly  Ecclesiastes  understands  all  too  well. 
It  hardly  need  be  said  that  it  is  not  for  his  sermons  in  six  volumes 
that  we  remember  Laurence  Sterne.  His  two  works,  "  Tristram 
Shandy  "  and  "  The  Sentimental  Journey,  "  are  the  memorials 
which  keep  his  memory  green.  The  latter  of  these  two  produc- 
tions is  merely  a  sketchy  account  of  a  supposititious  journey  over 
the  usual  continental  route  of  that  day,  interlarded  with  bits  of 
sentimental  pathos  and  apparent  sensibility,  which  Thackeray,  in 
his  "  English  Humorists,"  rightly  characterizes  as  artificial  and  in- 
sincere. It  is  in  no  sense  a  novel,  although  intended  as  an  essay 
in  delineation  of  character. 


JiJ  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION'. 

"  The    Life   and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy,  Gentleman " 
(i  759-1 767),  a  cleverly  constructed  series  of  eight  volumes  (ori- 
ginally nine),  details  with  great  accuracy  and  minute 

Tristram  circumstance  the  incidents  attending  the  nativity  of 

Shandy. 

the  gentleman  whose  autobiographical  idiosyncrasies 

we  are  supposed  to  be  enjoying.  The  affectation  of  ingenuity,  and 
the  very  pertness  of  the  narrative  at  last  become  wearisome  ;  while 
the  humor,  which  is  genuine  enough,  is  vitiated  by  the  vulgarity 
and  the  indecency  of  its  allusions.  The  use  of  double-entendre^ 
of  coarse  word-play,  of  pure  obscenity,  in  fact,  becomes  so  fre- 
quent and  so  elaborate  that  its  lack  of  spontaneity  makes  intoler- 
able what,  in  works  of  that  period,  is  sometimes  condoned  because 
of  its  naturalness  and  robust  vivacity.  The  hero  of  the  novel,  if 
novel  it  may  be  called,  presumably  the  "  Gentleman  "  whose  name 
adorns  the  titlepage,  does  not  appear  in  his  own  proper  person 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  entire  nine  volumes. 
There  is,  however,  some  capital  character  painting  in  the  work. 
Mr.  Shandy,  father  of  the  hero,  is  exceeding  real;  Dr.  Slop, 
although  bordering  upon  the  verge  of  caricature,  possesses  an 
individuality  of  his  own  ;  while  the  character  of  Uncle  Toby  stands 
out  immeasurably  above  and  beyond  all  the  rest,  not  merely  for 
the  consistency  and  clearness  of  the  portraiture,  but  for  the  very 
lovableness  of  the  conception,  which  goes  far  to  atone  its  author's 
faults  and  to  stamp  him  the  genius  that  he  undoubtedly  was. 
Uncle  Toby  and  his  body-servant,  Corporal  Trim,  who  is  as  much 
a  part  of  Uncle  Toby  as  is  the  latter's  wig  or  stick,  belong  to  the 
great  character  portraits  in  our  gallery  of  English  fiction. 

"  My  uncle  Toby  was  a  man  patient  of  injuries ;  —  not  from  want 
of  courage; — I  have  told  you  in  a  former  chapter*  that  he  was  a 
man  of  courage  ; '  —  nor  did  this  arise  from  any  insensibility  or  obtuse- 
ness  of  his  intellectual  parts ;  —  but  he  was  of  a  peaceful,  placid  nature, 
—  no  jarring  element  in  it,  —  all  was  mixed  up  so  kindly  within  him ; 
my  uncle  Toby  had  scarce  a  heart  to  retaliate  upon  a  fly. 

"Go,  —  says  he  one  day  at  dinner,  to  an  overgrown  one  which  had 
buzzed  about  his  nose  and  tormented  him  cruelly  all  dinner-time,  — 
and  which,  after  infinite  attempts,  he  had  caught  at  last,  as  it  flew  by 


THE  RISE    OF  THE  NOVEL.  53 

him; —  I  '11  not  hurt  thee,  says  my  uncle  Toby,  rising  from  his  chair 
and  going  across  the  room,  with  the  fly  in  his  hand,  —  I  '11  not  hurt  a 
hair  of  thy  head :  Go,  says  he,  lifting  up  the  sash,  and  opening  his 
hand  as  he  spoke,  to  let  it  escape; — go,  poor  devil,  get  thee  gone, 
why  should  I  hurt  thee  ?  —  This  world  surely  is  wide  enough  to  hold 
both  thee  and  me."  ^ 

Seven  years  before  the  completion  and  publication  of  "  Tris- 
tram Shandy,"  there  stole  quietly  into  the  ranks  of  English  fiction 
a  book  more  notable  and  more  important  far  than 
that  of  Sterne  in  its  influence  upon  the  modern  novel.  ^^^^*^* 
All  the  world,  at  least  the  literary  part  of  it,  knows 
how  the    manuscript   lay  gathering   dust  in  Goldsmith's   table- 
drawer  until  brusque  old  Dr.  Johnson  —  himself  the   author  of 
a  didactic  novel,   "  Rasselas,"  which  had   appeared   two   years 
before  —  fished  it  out  and  stood  godfather  for  it  at  the  pub- 
lisher's.    "  Our  first  genuine  novel  of  domestic  life,"  as  Craik  ' 
truly  calls  it :  indeed,  there  is  nothing  to  dispute  its  title.     The 
story  is  a  somewhat  sentimental  one,  there  is  less  of  realism  here 
than  in  *'  Tom  Jones  "  or  "Joseph  Andrews;  "  for  Oliver  Gold- 
smith was   a   poet,   and   commonly  idealized.     "The  Vicar   of 
Wakefield  "  is  significant  of  a  new  stage  in  the  history  of  the 
English  novel.     Thus  does  the  historian  Lecky,  in  his  "  History 
of  European  Morals,"  refer  to  the  fiction  of  the  period  already 
described :  — 

"  The  character  of  the  seducer,  and  especially  of  the  passionless 
seducer,  who  pursues  his  career  simply  as  a  kind  of  sport,  and  under 
the  influence  of  no  stronger  motive  than  vanity  or  a  spirit  of  adven- 
ture, has  been  glorified  and  idealized  in  popular  hterature  of  Christen- 
dom in  a  manner  to  which  we  can  find  no  parallel  in  antiquity.  When 
we  reflect  that  the  object  of  such  a  man  is  by  the  coldest  and  most 
deliberate  treachery  to  blast  the  lives  of  innocent  women,  when  we 
compare  the  levity  of  his  motive  with  the  irreparable  injury  he  inflicts : 
and  we  remember  he  can  only  deceive  his  victim  by  persuading  her 
to  love  him,  and  can  only  ruin  her  by  persuading  her  to  trust  him,  it 
must  be  owned  it  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  a  cruelty  more  wanton, 
and  more  heartless,  or  a  character  combining  more  elements  of  infamy 

1  Tristram  Shandy,  book  ii.  chap.  xii. 


54  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

and  of  dishonour.  That  such  a  character  should  for  many  centuries 
have  been  the  popular  ideal  of  a  considerable  section  of  literature,  and 
the  boast  of  numbers  who  most  plume  themselves  upon  their  honour 
is  assuredly  one  of  the  most  mournful  facts  of  history,  and  it  repre- 
sents a  moral  defection  not  less  than  was  revealed  in  ancient  Greece 
by  the  position  that  was  assigned  to  the  courtesan."  ^ 

In  Goldsmith's  novel  the  coarseness,  the  brutality,  the  indecency 
which  characterized  the  works  preceding  it  have  disappeared ;  a 
cleaner  and  sweeter  atmosphere  is  felt,  and  the  existence  of  a 
new  and  truer  artistry  is  revealed. 

*  Lecky's  History  of  European  Morals,  vol.  ii.  pp.  346,  347. 


THE  PERFECTION  OF  THE  NOVEL,  55 


IV. 

THE   PERFECTION   OF  THE   NOVEL. 

From  the  moment  that  the  genial  Vicar  of  Wakefield  and  his 
sentimental,  not  altogether  respectable  contemporary,  Mr.  Tris- 
tram  Shandy,  entered  the   domain  of  fiction,  at  or 

^'  ^  ^  J    FromGold- 

about  the  year  1760,  no  other  personage  appeared  smith  to 

to  dispute  their  entire  pre-eminence  therein  until  ^cott. 
in  1 8 14  Sir  Walter  Scott  began  to  introduce  his  people  to  the 
world.  Of  course  there  were  novels  and  novelists  in  the  interim, 
and  various  creatures  of  fiction,  with  varying  degrees  of  preten- 
sion to  pubhc  notice  ;  but  there  are  few  whom  the  world  recalls 
to-day,  and  absolutely  none  who  have  bequeathed  a  general 
reputation  to  posterity. 

Delineation  of  character  is  the  supreme  test  of  a  novel's  claim 
to  regard.  Accuracy  in  that  particular  is  vastly  better  than  mere 
ingenuity  of  plot.  Any  writer,  after  his  apprentice-  Qj^^j-acter- 
ship,  can  invent  action,  but  only  the  few  can  create  painting  in 
men  and  women.  So  true  is  this  of  all  the  past  ^^*^^®^' 
that  out  of  the  mass  of  pages  so  industriously  piled  up  even 
to  the  present  day,  we  find  comparatively  few  which  record 
the  lives  and  fortunes  of  beings  actually  real  and  human  —  but 
it  is  these  few  which  have  survived :  the  rest  are  dead,  if  we  can 
thus  refer  to  offspring  which  came  lifeless  to  the  birth.  Put  the 
immortality  of  these  shadowy  men  and  women  to  the  test.  Whom 
do  you  know  the  better,  the  author  or  his  people  ?  Tom  Jones, 
Robinson  Crusoe,  —  do  we  not  recall  the  character  before  we 
recollect  the  author?  More  people  have  heard  of  Tristram 
Shandy  than  of  Laurence  Sterne ;  we  are  every  whit  as  familiar 
with    the    embarrassments    of    Dr.    Primrose    as    with    the    per- 


56  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

plexities   that   harassed    the   amiable    Doctor   by  whom    he   was 
created.     On  the  other  hand,  Fannj^  Burney  and  Horace  Wal- 
pole  we  know  excellently  well ;  but  who  were  Evelma  and  Cecilia, 
and  who  in  the  name  of  all  the  famous  is  the  Knight  of  the 
Gigantic  Sabre  ?     Many  have  read  the  essay  on  Madame  d'Arblay 
who  have  not  ventured  to  open  either  one  of  her  two  principal 
novels.     To  be  sure,  this  reasoning  must  not  be  pushed  too  far, 
for  there  are  accidental  and   adventitious  circumstances  which 
very  often  enter  into  the   account,  although    in   the   main   the 
principle  holds  true. 
/       Three  distinct  tendencies  are  manifest  in  the   fiction  written 
X    Y    between  Goldsmith's  day  and  Scott's,  —  the  sentimental,  the  ultra- 
\  romantic,  and  the  moralizing.     Sterne '"s  influence  is 

^Sentjment.^^     obvious  enough  in  ''  The  Man  of  Feeling,"  written  by 
)C  Henxy  Mackenzie  in  1 7  7 1 .     Ij;  is  so  fragmentary  and 

so  sketchy  that  only  by  courtesy  can  it  be  called  a  novel.  Yet  in 
this  almost  planless  work  a  portrait  in  profile  is  fairly  drawn  of  a 
man  with  responsive,  impulsive  nature,  quick  in  sympathy,  un- 
practical in  action.  This  sentimental  spirit  was  born  of  conti- 
nental influence.  It  was  the  age  of  the  Revolution,  and  the 
youthful  ardor  of  England  now  and  then  found  its  vent  in  both 
poetry  and  prose. 

"  Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven ! " 

Rousseau  was  the  hero  among  litterateurs,  and  only  three  years 
after  this  Goethe's  admirers  were  weeping  over  the  misfortunes 
__pf  Werther.  The  most  recent  editor  of  Mackenzie's  work  has 
considerately  supplied  an  index  to  the  emotions  of  the  hero,  so 
that,  if  inclined,  the  sympathetic  reader  may  turn  immediately 
to  the  pages  wherein  the  "  man  of  feeling "  is  depicted  "  sob- 
bing," or  "choked  in  utterance,"  or  "blubbering  like  a  boy;" 
if  one  has  the  hardihood,  he  may  indeed  behold  this  sensitive 
being  "  bursting "  with  grief,  and  on  one  occasion  fairly  disap- 
pearing in  a  "  shower  of  tears,"  But  Henry  Mackenzie's  "  Man 
of-  Feeling  "  is  to  be  remembered  for  one  passage  if  for  no  otner, 


THE  PERFECTION  OF  THE  NOVEL,  57 

and  for  an  epitaph  as  neat  and  happy  as  ever  crowned  the  effort 
of  a  better  wit :  — 

*'  *  I  should  like,'  said  Harley,  taking  his  [the  stranger's]  hand,  *  to 
have  some  word  to  remember  so  much  seeming  worth  by :  my  name 
is  Harley.' 

"  *  I  shall  remember  it,'  answered  the  old  gentleman, '  in  my  prayers , 
mine  is  Silton.'  And  Silton  indeed  it  was!  Ben  Silton  himself! 
Once  more,  my  honored  friend,  farewell !  —  Born  to  be  happy  without 
the  world,  to  that  peaceful  happiness  which  the  world  has  not  to  bestow ! 
Envy  never  scowled  on  thy  life,  nor  hatred  smiled  on  thy  gi^ave^  ^ 

Among,  the  writers  of  this  group,  following  Mackenzie,  and 
more  ardent  in  his  revolutionary  sympathies,  William  Godwin 
was  most  prominent,  who  in  1 794  wrote  the  novel  "  Caleb  Wil- 
liams," perhaps  the  most  widely  read  fiction  of  that  time. 

Foremost  in  the  romantic  school  of  that  day  were  Horace 
Walpole  and  Mrs.  Radcliffe.  "  The  Castle  of  Otranto,"  written  by 
the  former  in  1765,  was  so  far  beyond  the  bounds  ot 
reason  as  to  have  suggested,  and  not  unplausibly,  Jq^j^^p 
that  its  author,  a  man  of  taste  and  leisure,  had  in- 
tended his  production  as  a  satire  rather  than  a  novel.  Howbeit, 
we  have  here  a  tale  of  sights  and  sounds  uncanny ;  dismal  cor- 
ridors echo  to  unearthly  groans ;  portraits  speak ;  underground 
passages  form  an  important  part  of  the  machinery  of  the  plot. 
The  prominent  characters  of  the  tale  disappear  mysteriously,  and 
as  unexpectedly  reappear.  There  is  in  the  castle  courtyard  a 
gigantic  helmet  whose  black  plumes  nod  ominously  when  mes- 
sengers approach  the  place.  Such  are  the  expedients  herein 
employed  to  aid  the  plot  of  cruel  persecution  and  innocent  pas- 
sion to  an  appropriate  end.  The  effect  is  rendered  more  dis- 
cordant than  is  necessary  by  the  attempt  to  invest  these  scenes 
and  the  characters  engaged  in  them  with  all  the  reality  possible 
through  detailed  description  and  contemporary  attributes.  Had 
this  action  but  been  relegated  to  the  shadowy  lands  where  such 
events  are  presumed  more  credible,  the  story  would  not  be  the 
mass  of  ridiculous  incongruity  it  is. 

1  The  Man  of  Feeling,  chap,  xxxiii. 


5 8  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

A  Stronger  work  than  Walpole's  romance  is  the  •'*  Vathek  "  of 

William  Beckford.     "  The  History  of  the  CaUph  Vathek,"  as  its 

full  title  reads,  is  yet  more  grotesque  and  wilder  in 

its  freaks  of  fancy  than  is  **  The  Castle  of  Otranto    " 


but  its  Oriental  setting,  its  remarkable  likeness  to  some  tale 
among  the  thousand  and  one  of  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  above 
all,  its  consistency  in  the  fantastic  character  assumed  and  the 
extraordinary  imaginative  power  of  its  author,  have  given  to 
this  tale  a  popularity  and  a  length  of  life  shared  by  no  other  of 
the  grotesque  romances  of  this  period.  "  Vathek "  reappears 
regularly  in  edition  after  edition,  delighting  lovers  of  the  marvel- 
lous in  fiction  to-day  as  it  did  a  hundred'  years  ago.  William 
Beckford,  a  youth  of  cleverness  and  of  wealth,  composed  the 
work  apparently  for  his  own  amusement,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
two.  He  claimed  that  it  was  the  product  of  a  single  effort,  com- 
pleted at  one  sitting,  although  the  sitting  was  explained  as 
having  continued  through  three  days  and  two  nights ;  but  this 
account  is  now  known  to  be  as  fanciful  as  are  the  scenes  de- 
scribed in  the  tale  itself.  Careful  preparation  and  an  elaborate 
composition  preceded  the  appearance  of  the  romance.  The  book 
was  written  in  French  while  Beckford  was  travelHng  on  the  Conti- 
nent ;  and  although  an  English  translation  was  published  without 
permission  in  1784,  it  was  in  1787  that  the  author's  first  edition 
appeared  at  Paris  and  Lausanne. 

Under  the  influence  of  the  "  Mysteries  of  Udolpho  "  written 
by  Mrs.  Radcliffe  in   1794  —  and  very  neatly  satirized  by  Jane 

Austen  in  "  Northanger  Abbey"  not  long  after  — 
Le^^**         Matthew  Gregory  Lewis  wrote  "  The  Monk."     Lewis 

was  wise  enough  to  discard  the  childish  bugaboos  of 
Otranto,  and  to  finally  explain  his  mysteries,  or  at  least  suggest  an 
accounting  therefor  in  his  closing  chapter.  "The  Monk  "  (1796) 
was  written  before  its  author  had  attained  the  age  of  twenty ; 
and  so  powerful  was  the  impression  made  by  it  that  its  writer 
has  been  known  as  "  Monk "  Lewis  from  that  day  to  this. 
Lewis  was  full  of  the  German  influence  of  his  time,  —  that  of 
the  romantic  school,  just  then  in  its  greatest  pride.     He  had  met 


THE   PERFECTION  OF   THE   NOVEL,  59 

Goethe,  and  had  translated  Schiller's  "  Kabale  und  Liebe  "  for 
the  English  stage.  He  wrote  "The  Castle  Spectre,*'  a  musical 
drama,  and  an  opera  entitled  "  Adelmorn  the  Outlaw."  One  of 
his  best  novels  was  "  The  Bravo  of  Venice,"  published  in  1804. 

"  It  was  evening.  Multitudes  of  light  clouds,  partially  illumined  by 
the  moonbeams,  overspread  the  horizon,  and  through  them  floated  the 
full  moon  in  tranquil  majesty,  while  her  splendour  was  reflected  by 
every  wave  of  the  Adriatic  Sea.  All  was  hushed  around  ;  gently  was 
the  water  rippled  by  the  riight  wind;  gently  did  the  night  wind  sigh,, 
through  the  Colonnades  of  Venice. 

"It  was  midnight ;  and  still  sat  a  stranger,  solitary  and  sad,  on  the 
border  of  the  great  canal.  Now  with  a  glance  he  measured  the  battle- 
ments and  proud  towers  of  the  city ;  and  now  he  fixed  his  melancholy 
eyes  upon  the  waters  with  a  vacant  stare.     At  length  he  spoke :  — 

"  '  Wretch  that  I  am,  whither  shall  I  go.**  Here  sit  I  in  Venice,  and 
what  would  it  avail  to  wander  further?  What  will  become  of  me? 
All  now  slumber,  save  myself !  The  Doge  rests  on  his  couch  of 
down;  the  beggar's  head  presses  his  straw  pillow;  but  for  me  there  is 
no  bed  except  the  cold,  damp  earth  !  There  is  no  gondolier  so  wretched 
but  he  knows  where  to  find  work  by  day  and  shelter  by  night  —  while 
/ —  while  / —  Oh !  dreadful  is  the  destiny  of  which  I  am  made  the 
sport ! ' 

"  He  began  to  examine  for  the  twentieth  time  the  pockets  of  his 
tattered  garments.  *  No  !  not  one  paolo,  by  heavens  !  —  and  I  hunger 
almost  to  death.' 

"  He  unsheathed  his  sword ;  he  waved  it  in  the  moonshine,  and 
sighed,  as  he  marked  the  glittering  of  the  steel. 

"  *  No,  no,  my  old  true  companion,  thou  and  I  must  never  part. 
Mine  thou  shalt  remain  though  I  starve  for  it.  Oh,  was  not  that  a 
golden  time  when  Valeria  gave  thee  to  me,  and  when  she  threw  the 
belt  over  my  shoulder,  I  kissed  thee  and  Valeria?  She  has  deserted 
us  for  another  world,  but  thou  and  I  will  never  part  in  this.' 

*'  He  wiped  away  a  drop  which  hung  upon  his  eyelid. 

"  '  Pshaw  !  't  was  not  a  tear ;  the  night  wind  is  sharp  and  bitter,  and 
makes  the  eyes  water;  but  as  for  tears  —  Absurd!  my  weeping  days 
are  over.' 

*'And  as  he  spoke,  the  unfortunate  (for  such  by  his  discourse  and 
situation  he  appeared  to  be)  dashed  his  forehead  against  the  earth, 
and  his  lips  were  already  unclosed  to  curse  the  hour  which  gave  him 
being,  when  he  seemed  suddenly  to  recollect  himself.     He  rested  his 


6o  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

head  on  his  elbow,  and  sang  mournfully  the  burthen  of  a  song  which 
had  often  delighted  his  childhood  in  the  castle  of  his  ancestors."^ 

What  heroics  !  what  rubbish  !  But  there  is  more  than  this  in 
Lewis's  '*  Bravo.'*  He  contrives  to  make  his  hero  respected, 
even  admired  to  a  degree ;  and  artfully  employs  the  poetry  and 
witchery  of  Venice,  that  unique  city  in  the  world,  —  half  land, 
half  sea,  —  to  give  a  tinge  of  appropriateness  and  even  congruity 
to  his  wild  romance.  The  "  Bravo  "  is  as  good  a  specimen  of 
the  improbable  and  yet  conceivable  as  any  work  of  fiction  earlier 
than  Scott. 

The  moralizing  school  found  its  best  exponents  in  Jane  Austen 
(i  775-181 7)  and  Maria  Edgeworth  (176 7-1 849).  The  admir- 
able Irish  tales  by  the  latter,  as  well  as  her  "  stories  of 
TheNovei^  fashionable  life,"  the  "popular  tales"  and  the  novels 
of  "  Leonora,"  "  Patronage,"  and  "  Belinda,"  are  ex- 
tremely entertaining  and  at  the  same  time  faithful  pictures  of  real 
life,  freed  from  the  sentimentalism  of  the  one  school  and  the 
romantic  unrealities  of  the  other.  These  stories  were  told  with 
a  moral  purpose  in  view,  yet  that  purpose  was  maintained  unob- 
trusively, and  the  interest  of  the  tale  was  paramount. 

By  far  the  most  clever  novelist  of  her  day  was  Jane  Austen 
(1775-1817).     The  hfe  of  this  gifted  woman  was  most  simple 
and  most  quiet.     Her  home  was  a  village  rectory  in  Hampshire  ; 
her  only  dissipation  an  occasional  stay  at  the  fashion- 
^^J  able  watering-place,  Bath.     No  notable  incidents  ap- 

pear to  have  broken  the  calm  current  of  her  daily 
life ;  no  serious  romance  is  known  to  have  absorbed  her  mind. 
Quietly  as  she  lived  she  wrote  :  her  intimate  friends  were  hardly 
aware  of  her  occupation  or  her  power.  And  it  is  a  very  quiet 
phase  of  life  that  Jane  Austen  has  described,  although  her  ait  is 
such  that  the  most  commonplace  scenes  appear  eventful  and  the 
commonest  characters  important.  No  one  since  Fielding  and 
Sterne  had  displayed  such  power  as  was  hers  in  the  realistic 
touches  which  exhibit  character ;  but  the  material  which  supplied 

1  The  Bravo  of  Venice,  chap.  i. 


THE  PERFECTION  OF   THE  NOVEL,  6r 

Miss  Austen  with  her  creations  was  widely  different  from  that 
which  furnished  the  earlier  novelists  with  theirs.  The  most  sen- 
sational occurrence  in  her  pages  is  an  elopement  which  ends  with 
a  due  respect  for  the  proprieties.  The  moral  purpose  is  strong 
in  Jane  Austen's  work.  "  Pride  and  Prejudice  "  (1813),^  **  Sense 
and  Sensibility"  (181 1),  are  her  two  most  ambitious  novels,  and 
the  tides  are  suggestive  of  the  lessons  they  inculcate.  The 
story  is  always  told  straightforwardly,  and  rarely  drags ;  the  author  • 
possesses  a  modest  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  allows  a  frequent 
dash  of  satire  to  give  some  piquancy  to  her  descriptions. 
"Northanger  Abbey"  (181 8)  is  written  quite  in  the  spirit  of 
banter,  and  the  humorous  misadventures  of  the  romantically  in- 
clined young  heroine  are  shafts  capitally  aimed  against  the  taste- 
less romances  of  the  "  Udolpho  "  type.  Miss  Austen  was  a. most 
minute  observer :  microscopic  is  the  word  to  be  used  of  her 
method  in  observation  and  in  treatment.  With  painstaking  ac- 
curacy each  detail  of  every  process  is  described.  Modest  she 
was  in  all  things,  —  yes,  but  not  mediocre.  Sir  Walter  paid  her 
a  remarkable  compliment :  "  That  young  lady  has  a  talent  for 
describing  the  involvements  of  feelings  and  characters  of  ordinary 
life  which  is  to  me  the  most  wonderful  I  ever  met  with.  The  big 
bow-wow  strain  I  can  do  myself,  like  any  now  going ;  but  the 
exquisite  touch  which  renders  ordinary  commonplace  things  and 
characters  interesting  from  the  truth  of  the  description  and  the 
sentiment  is  denied  to  me."  So  far  as  this  applies  to  Jane 
Austen,  Scott's  words  are  eminently  true.  Besides  the  works 
already  mentioned,  Miss  Austen  wrote  also  "  Mansfield  Park  " 
(1814),  "Emma"  (1816),  and  "Persuasion"  (1818).  "Pride 
and  Prejudice  "  is  universally  conceded  to  be  her  ablest  novel.- 
These  stories  were  published  anonymously,  and  although  the  secret 
of  their  authorship  leaked  out,  they  were  never  avowed  by  Miss 
Austen  as  her  work.  Their  real  merit  was  not  generally  appre- 
ciated until  after  the  early  death  of  their  author,  but  the  fame 
which  came  so  tardily  shows  no  sign  of  waning.  Next  to  Scott, 
there  is  no  author  of  that  time  whose  works,  so  unlike  those  of 
1  Dates  of  publication  are  here  given. 


62  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

the  great  romanticist,  are  so  generally  familiar  or  read  with  so 
much  real  appreciation  to-day  as  quiet,  homely,  wholesome  Jane 
Austen. 

That  was  indeed  an  era  of  feminine  activity  in  story-writing. 
Fanny  Burney  had  become  famous  by  the  publication  of  *'  Evelina  " 

in  1778,  and  her  "Cecilia"  and  "Camilla"  had  fol- 
Wo^^te'^"      lowed  in  1782  and  1796.     Real  novels  of  fashionable 

life  these  were,  reflecting  the  manners  of  the  time, 
although  coarse  in  expression  and  often  indelicate  in  incident  as 
they  seem  to  the  occasional  reader  of  to-day.  In  1791  "A 
Simple  Story  "  by  Mrs.  Inchbald  had  appeared,  and  "  Nature  and 
Art  "  in  1 796.  It  was  in  1 794  that  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  "  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho  "  was  published,  and  that  fantastic  fiction  had  been  pre- 
ceded by  "The  Sicilian  Romance"  in  1790.  At  the  time  that 
Mrs.  Edgeworth  was  elaborating  her  tales  of  Irish  life,  Jane 
Porter  was  inditing  "Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  "  (1803)  and  "The 
Scottish  Chiefs"  (1810)  ;  while  Susan  E.  Ferrier's  "Marriage" 
followed  in  1818,  and  "The  Inheritance"  in  1824.  This  was  all 
preparing  the  way,  as  it  seems,  for  the  appearance  some  years 
later  of  the  remarkable  work  of  another  woman,  the  "Jane  Eyre  " 
of  Charlotte  Bronte  \  and,  what  is  more  important  still,  it  wa?' 
possibly  influential  in  the  development  of  a  genius  which,  by  the 
publication  of  "  Scenes  from  Clerical  Life,"  in  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine, in  1857,  was  to  carry  a  woman's  name  to  a  place  among  the 
novelists  not  only  higher  than  that  as  yet  attained  by  any  of  her 
sisters,  but  so  high  as  to  endanger  the  laurels  of  all  story-tellers 
from  Defoe's  day  to  her  own.  An  honorable  list,  certainly,  that 
of  these  women  novelists,  deserving  more  attention  and  a  larger 
notice  than  is  possible  here.  To  the  best  of  these  novelists,  far 
more  than  to  Richardson  and  Fielding  or  Goldsmith,  does  the 
present  generation  owe  in  its  perfection  the  "novel  of  manners," 
so  called,  that  realistic  delineation  of  the  affairs  of  common  hfe 
which  forms  the  most  popular  class  in  the  fiction  of  to-day. 

But  now  we  are  in  the  very  age  and  glory  of  English  fiction. 
To  record  the  progress  of  the  novel  from  genesis  to  climax  is  com- 
paratively easy  j  to  pass  opinion  upon  all  the  host  that  follow  is 


THE  PERFECTION  OF  THE  NOVEL.  63 

beyond  the  scope  of  this  present  work  :  it  is  only  typical  figures, 
the  leaders  among  story-tellers,  that  we  can  now  consider. 

The  romantic  school  attained  its  highest  level  in  the  works 
_of  Scott  (1771-1 83 2).  We  all  of  us  know  how  with  his  taste 
for  the  patriotic,  the  picturesque,  the  romantic,  the 
young  poet  caught  the  echo  of  old  Scottish  border  tic  Novels 
songs,  and  sang  them  over  again  in  the  first  metrical  <>^  Scott, 
romances  that  had  been  heard  in  Britain  since  the  days  of 
Chaucer ;  and  we  know,  too,  how  easily  and  naturally,  when  he 
fancied  it  was  time  to  leave  that  field  to  another,  Sir  Walter  passed 
from  the  lays  of  the  minstrel  to  the  records  of  a  chronicler,  and 
told  in  an  historian's  prose  and  with  almost  an  historian's  fidelity 
the  stories  of  Rob  Roy  and  Ivanhoe,  of  Amy  Robsart  and  Effie 
Deans,  of  Sultan  Saladin,  and  the  rest  of  that  goodly  host  well 
known  to  all.  With  no  attempt  at  moralizing,  wishing  only  to 
amuse  and  entertain,  this  **  wizard  of  the  North  "  but  waved  his 
wand,  and  the  national  pageant  of  England  and  Scotland  moved 
upon  his  pages  :  Britain  in  the  era  of  the  Conquest ;  the  intrigues 
and  the  revels  of  the  Elizabethan  court ;  the  struggles  of  Round- 
heads and  Cavaliers.  Anon  we  hear  the  tramping  of  the  Crusaders 
as  ponderous  armies  toil  their  discordant  way  to  the  Holy  City ; 
or  listen  to  the  border  war-cries  when  canny  Scotsmen  rise  from 
out  the  gorse  and  heather  to  defend  their  rugged  hills  from  invad- 
ing foes.  Old  Edinburgh,  mediaeval  Paris,  the  London  of  a  dozen 
epochs,  Scotland,  England,  France,  and  Palestine,  —  countries, 
peoples,  scenes,  and  characters  are  all  described  so  vividly  that  we 
see  them  well,  and  with  the  truthfulness  of  environment  and  habit. 
Truly  the  romantic  novel,  the  novel  of  history,  could  reach  no 
higher  point;  the  stories  of  Sir  Walter  marked  the  climax  of 
attainment,  and  heralded  the  decline. 

Nor   must   we    fail    to    notice    our    own    *' American    Scott," 
James  Fenimore  Cooper   (i 789-1851),  who  with  the  self-same 
taste  for  the  romantic  and  the  picturesque,  and  with  a  j^jnes 
patriotism  every  whit  as  ardent,  recorded  the  adven-   Fenimore 
ture   and   romance  of  the  American  sailor  and  the       ^^* 
American    Indian.     Very  far  removed  from  the  realism    of  the 


64  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

present  day  are  these  novels  of  Cooper,  "  The  Water  Witch,"  "  The 
Red  Rover,"  *-'Wing  and  Wing,"  "Pathfinder,"  "Last  of  the 
Mohicans,"  and  the  rest ;  yet  they  are  by  no  means  characterless. 
Redolent  of  ocean  and  of  forest,  breezy  with  the  bracing  winds  of 
the  prairie,  these  scenes  become  endowed  with  life  through  the  art 
of  a  true  story-teller ;  their  world  is  not  wholly  fanciful  or  unreal. 

The  works  of  Captain  Marryat  and  Samuel  Lover  require  at 
least  a  reference,  for  the  boys  who  read  with  dehght  the  stories 
of  Leatherstocking  and  Long  Tom  Coffin  contrived 
jR^^at  and  somehow  to  make  acquaintance  with  Peter  Simple  and 
Handy  Andy  and  Mr.  Midshipman  Easy.  To  the 
generation  of  yesterday  at  least,  these  personages  are  almost  as 
classic,  if  not  quite  so  classical,  as  their  predecessors.  Though 
more  careless  in  language  and  less  discreet  of  demeanor,  they 
linger  nevertheless  in  affectionate  memory  along  with  the  heroes 
of  Cooper  and  Scott. 

Edward  Bulwer,  Lord  Lytton  (1805-18  73)  told  the  same 
romantic  tales  with  a  trifle  less  of  skill  and  more  of  clatter  than 
Bulwer-  ^^^  Scott ;  while  here  at  home  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
Lytton  and  ( 1 804-1864)  wrote  roman,ces  of  a  different  and  a 
Ha  orne.  higher  order.  He  explored  the  secret  recesses  and 
recorded  the  experiences  of  human  souls,  and  made  for  him- 
self a  name  above  all  those  who  have  been  tellers  of  stories  here. 
Unconsciously  he  took  his  place,  too,  as  the  last,  for  the  present 
epoch,  of  the  great  romancers,  American  or  British. 

Some  allusion  seems  here  appropriate  to  those  verse  fictions 
which  have  now  and  then  found  their  way  into  modern  English 
The  Modern  literature.  Reference  has  been  made  already  to  the 
Metrical  retelling  of  the  Arthurian   tales  by  Tennyson  in  his 

Romance.  exquisite  "  Idylls  of  the  King ;  "  somewhat  of  the 
same  type  are  the  romantic  narrative  poems  of  Swinburne 
and  William  Morris,  the  latter  of  whom  has  succeeded  admi- 
rably not  only  in  reviving  the  material  of  old  Teutonic  days, 
but  in  suggesting  by  the  manner  of  the  tale  with  wonderful  vivid- 
ness the  very  life  and  spirit  of  the  past.  The  earlier  works  of 
Scott,  his  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake," 


THE  PERFECTION  OF  THE  NOVEL.  65 

and  "  Marmion ; "  the  familiar  series  by  Lord  Byron,  "The 
Giaour,"  "The  Bride  of  Abydos,"  "The  Corsair,"  "Lara,"  and 
the  rest,  are,  however,  more  essentially  in  the  mold  of  the  ancient 
metrical  romance  than  the  group  first  mentioned.  Campbell's 
"  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  Longfellow's  "  Hiawatha,"  and  his 
"  Evangeline  "  may  also  be  regarded  as  illustrations  of  the  poet- 
ical romance.  But  of  more  particular  interest  to  the  student  of 
modern  fiction  are  such  stories  in  verse  as  Mrs.  Browning's 
"Aurora  Leigh"  and  Owen  Meredith's  (Lord  Lytton)  "  Lucile." 
These  last  are  very  much  like  novels,  though  told  in  measure 
rather  than  in  prose.  They  differ  from  the  true  metrical  romance 
in  some  important  respects :  there  is  far  greater  distinctness  in 
detail,  the  vagueness,  the  breadth  of  epic  treatment  is  not  seen ; 
there  is  a  degree  of  idealization  inseparable  from  truly  poetic 
handling,  but  there  is  closer  conformity  to  tne  truth  of  nature,  of 
human  nature  especially ;  moreover  action  in  the  narrative  is  held 
subordinate  to  motives,  incident  to  character. 

And  now  a  word  needs  to  be  spoken  regarding  that  remarkable 
triumvirate  of  genius  who  placed  the  English  novel  almost  where 
Shakespeare  put  the  English  drama,  and  left  immortal  characters 
behind  them,  not  alone  for  English  folk  to  know,  but  to  delight 
the  readers  and  lovers  of  stories  the  whole  world  through. 

First  there  was  Charles  Dickens    (18 12-1870).     Readers  of 
"  David  Copperfield  "  recall  brief  glimpses  of  the  harsh  experi- 
ences that  fell  in  Dickens'  childhood,  —  the  early  sur- 
roundings of  poverty  and  want ;  the  wretched  Hfe  in  pf^g^g 
the   London   streets ;    the   cruel   environment  of  the 
debtor's  prison ;  the  dismal  days  of  toil  in  the  blacking- factory. 
Pleasanter  is  it  to  recall  the  subsequent  advances,  and  especially 
one  scene  in  the  crowded  Strand,  —  a  scene  which  brings  the 
great  novelist  nearer  to  us  perhaps  than  almost  any  other  recorded 
incident  of  his  career.     With  all  the  hopes  and  all  the  misgivings 
of  a  young  writer  just  making  his  first  timid  venture  upon  the  sea 
of  literary  effort,  Dickens,  one  day,  shyly  and  by  stealth  dropped 
his  first  manuscript  into  the  letter-box  of  a  publisher.     Upon  the 
day  of  issue,  the  young  contributor  buys  a  copy  of  the  magazine 

S 

f     ^      O?    THE  \ 

f   UNIVERSITY    ) 


66  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

upon  the  street.  He  scarcely  dares  to  open  the  cover.  So  ner- 
vous is  he  that  it  is  a  little  while  before  he  succeeds  in  finding  the 
table  of  contents ;  but  when  at  last  he  discovers  therein  the  title 
of  a  certain  sketch  by  "  Boz,"  the  sensitive,  emotional  spirit  of 
the  man  is  not  to  be  restrained ;  ashamed  to  meet  the  curious 
eyes  of  the  crowds  about  him,  Dickens  plunges  into  the  nearest 
doorway  to  sob  out  for  a  moment  an  emotion  too  acute  to  be  con- 
cealed. Perhaps  it  was  this  quick  responsive  sensibility  in  Charles 
Dickens  that  brought  him  now  and  then  so  dangerously  near  the 
verge  of  sentiment  of  a  baser  sort ;  and  this  quality  it  is,  perhaps, 
which  explains,  or  in  part  accounts  for,  the  fact  that  no  one  of  the 
great  novelists  arouses  so  strong  partisanship  in  readers  as  the 
author  of  Pickwick,  David  Copperfield,  and  Little  Nell.  It  is 
customary  to  insinuate  that  Dickens'  world  of  fancy  is  manifestly 
distorted  and  unreal,  and  it  is  needless  to  deny  that  there  is  fre- 
quent exaggeration  both  in  sentiment  and  outline  ;  yet  Dickens* 
characters  are  not  always  so  unreal  as  critics  claim.  His  eye  was 
quick  to  see  that  one  peculiar  trait  in  mental  or  moral  make-up 
which  made  men  individual,  original,  and  stamped  them  "  char- 
acters.'*  This  oddity  of  temperament  was  to  the  novelist  as 
obvious  and  insistent  as  any  eccentricity  of  motion  or  accident  of 
physique  which  excites  our  laughter,  awakens  pity,  or  rouses  our 
disgust.  The  painter  of  Uriah  Heep  and  of  Quilp  shaded  heavily 
and  made  a  daring  use  of  intense  tints ;  but  what  are  plausibly 
described  as  caricatures  by  one  man  are  unexpectedly  approved 
as  portraits  by  another.  It  is  not  long  ago  that  a  literary  man  of 
note  declared  in  public  that  upon  a  recent  stroll  down  Piccadilly 
whom  should  he  behold  advancing  toward  him  in  the  very  guise 
of  forty  years  ago,  but  Bob  Sawyer,  arm  in  arm  with  Mr.  Wilkins 
Micawber  !  The  humor  of  Dickens  is  almost  always  a  phase  of 
the  grotesque,  and  his  pathos  is  often  that  of  excessive  sensibility ; 
but  it  is  manifestly  an  injustice  to  dub  the  author  of  Little  Emily 
a  mere  caricaturist,  and  a  strangely  unappreciative  taste  which 
finds  the  world  of  Dickens'  fancy  only  unnatural  and  unreal. 
Quite  outside  of  any  discussion  of  his  merits  and  artistic  rank  as 
novelist,  but  nevertheless  of  direct  interest  to  novel-readers,  is  the 


THE  PERFECTION  OF   THE  NOVEL.  6/ 

fact,  abundantly  demonstrated,  of  the  remarkable  popularity  of  this 
author.  There  are  no  works  of  fiction  to-day  so  widely  read  and 
so  widely  sold  as  are  the  novels  of  Charles  Dickens.  With  the 
publishers  of  standard  fiction  he  has  no  real  competitor. 

By  the  side  of  Dickens  stood  William  Makepeace  Thackeray 
(1811-1863),  who  wrote,  perhaps,  with  a  sharper  pen  than  his. 
brother  novelist,  and  who  through  his  benignant-  ^jyi^j^ 
looking  spectacles  peered  into  the  follies  and  shams  Makepeace 
of  a  social  life  a  little  removed  in  its  sphere  from  Thackeray. 
that  which  Dickens  noted.  Not  always  so  genial,  not  always 
so  radiant,  he  told  the  story  of  Vanity  Fair,  and.  drew  the 
pictures  of  the  snobs  who  throng  its  avenues  and  crowd  its 
booths;  yet  this  keen-eyed  philosopher  saw  both  sides  of  life, 
after  all,  and  painted  the  pleasant  and  the  lovely  as  well  as  the 
exasperating  and  melancholy.  Thackeray  wrote  most  naturally 
with  the  pen  of  the  satirist,  and  sometimes  in  those  odd  never-to-be- 
forgotten  sketches  gave  us  what,  as  in  the  case  of  Dickens,  the 
critical  mass  with  their  wise  discernment  label  '*  caricature ;  "  but 
the  world  has  since  discovered  that  the  writer  of  ^'  Pendennis  '^ 
and  "  Esmond  "  did  have  an  artist's  eye  to  reality  in  his  effects ; 
in  complete  sympathy  with  his  chosen  master.  Fielding,  Thackeray 
made  a  bold  stand  upon  the  principle  of  human  nature  even  in 
the  personalities  of  fiction.  No  man  is  a  perfect  hero,  said  he, 
and,  however  dismal  the  doctrine,  no  woman  always  a  heroine. 
Hence  his  characters,  his  principals,  have  severally  the  fallibilities 
and  frailties  which  we  commonly  look  to  find  in  the  life  of  every 
day.  Thackeray  was  no  hero-worshipper  in  either  the  domain  of 
romance  or  the  social  world  of  real  men  and  women  among 
whom  he  lived ;  he  was  the  sworn  foe  of  all  pretence  and  sham, 
and  possibly  enjoyed  over  much  the  process  by  which  hypocrisy 
was  stripped  of  its  disguise  and  vice  punished  publicly  with  the 
stinging  whip  of  satire.  Yet  Thackeray  was  not  a  cynic  ;  he  has 
indeed  by  not  a  few  been  honored  with  the  title,  suggesting  their 
affection,  of  "  England's  gentlest  satirist." 

With  the  publication  of  *'  Adam  Bede  "  in  1859  and  of  *'  The 
Mill  on  the  Floss  "  in  the  following  year,  George  Eliot  (Mary  Ann 


6S  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

Evans-Cross,  i8 19-1880),  took  her  place  at  the  head  of  living  nov- 
elists in  her  day.  Dickens  had  painted  objectively,  but  as  he 
saw  his  men  and  women  he  made  them  over  again  to 
emphasize  the  character  he  had  found.  George  Eliot's 
people  were  never  made  :  they  were  born  like  mortals.  Per- 
sonality existed  in  them,  and  their  author  gave  them  an  essence, 
as  no  writer  excepting  Shakespeare  had  ever  done ;  with  the 
development  of  this  strong  personality,  moreover,  there  existed 
also  a  power  of  expression  rivalled  only  by  that  of  the  great 
dramatist  himself.  Her  humor  is  inimitable ;  it  is  natural 
and  genuine,  and  nowhere  in  her  pages  are  we  jarred  by  the 
intrusion  of  the  grotesque  or  the  unreal;  here  all  is  intensely 
human,  with  the  unity  of  nature  and  its  calm.  But  there  is  a 
third  respect  in  which  this  woman  novelist  surpassed  her  pre- 
decessors, and  won  a  place  in  the  domain  of  story-telling  which 
has  not  yet  been  wrested  from  her.  Thomas  Carlyle  is  quoted  as 
saying  with  reference  to  the  somewhat  rugged  and  depressing 
period  of  his  residence  at  Craigenputtoch  :  "  It  looks  to  me  now  like 
a  kind  of  humble  russet-coated  epic,  that  seven  years'  settlement 
at  Craigenputtoch,  very  poor  in  this  world's  goods,  but  not  with- 
out an  intrinsic  dignity  greater  and  more  important  than  then 
appeared."  This  striking  phrase,  "  a  russet-coated  epic,"  has 
been  seized  by  Sidney  Lanier,  one  of  our  American  critics,  and  is 
adapted  and  applied  by  him,  in  his  appreciative  and  acute 
remarks  upon  George  Eliot  ("The  English  Novel,"  page  192), 
to  the  subject  of  our  present  consideration.  This  is  the  element 
which  gives  George  Eliot's  work  its  highest  claim  to  our  regard ; 
what  she  depicted  was  not  only  real,  it  was  inspiring.  The  com- 
monplace, the  humdrum,  the  usual  experience  of  the  vast 
majority  of  humanity,  —  these  she  interpreted  ;  and  her  merit  was 
that  she  revealed  in  such  environment  the  possibilities  and  act- 
ualities of  latent  heroism.  She  wrote  the  "  russet-coated  epic  " 
of  common  life,  and  tacitly  taught  the  inspiration  of  the  universal 
struggle  upwards  towards  the  attainment  of  high  ideals.  There  is 
a  heaviness  of  melancholy  vaguely  perceptible  in  the  minor 
tones  of  all  her  works ;  to  one  familiar  with  the  story  of  her  life- 


THE   PERFECTION  OF   THE   NOVEL.  69 

experience  this  seriousness  of  tone  is  comprehensible.  The  stress 
of  her  own  experience,  and  the  inevitable  trials  of  her  chosen 
situation  added,  beyond  a  doubt,  to  the  intelligence  of  her 
conceptions  and  the  intensity  of  her  feeling,  while  the  intuitive 
optimism  of  her  nature  bade  her  proclaim  the  gospel  of  a 
triumphant  perseverance  rather  than  the  hard  doctrine  of  despair. 
Regarded  as  subjective  embodiments  of  wholesome  ideas,  and  con- 
sidered technically  as  objective  pictures  of  life  and  manners, 
George  Eliot's  novels  surpass  all  other  English  fiction  in  their 
fidelity  to  what  we  may  call  the  true  realism  of  humanity ;  and 
with  that  distinction  granted,  they  may  righdy  claim  the  place  of 
honor  among  the  novels.  Thus,  a  trifle  more  than  a  hundred 
years  after  the  appearance  of  "  Pamela  "  and  *'  Tom  Jones,"  and 
almost  a  hundred  years  after  the  creation  of  Goldsmith's  "  Vicar 
of  Wakefield,"  in  the  varied  work  of  these  three  writers,  the 
English  novel  may  be  said  to  have  reached  its  climax. 


70  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 


V. 

TENDENCIES   OF   TO-DAY. 

Charles  Lamb  once  said,  in  that  familiar  witty  way  of  his,  that 
when  a  new  book  came  out  he  read  an  old  one.     Perhaps  this 

might  be  not  a  bad  rule  for  the  story-lovers  of  our 
tt^md^^*^    own  day  to  follow.     Happy   indeed    may  that  one 

account  himself  who,  by  chance  or  foresight,  finds  that 
he  has  a  few  of  those  classic  works  of  the  generation  past  still 
treasured  up  unread ;  truly  unfortunate  is  the  fate  of  those  young 
people  of  to-day  who,  swamped  by  the  flood  of  contemporary 
fiction,  find  little  or  no  time  in  which  to  become  acquainted  with 
the  great  masterpieces  of  fifty  years  ago.  This  certainly  seems 
very  much  like  a  suggestion  that  there  are  now  in  the  field  of 
English  fiction  no  writers  worthy  to  compete  with  those  of  yes- 
terday. Not  altogether  that,  perhaps ;  and  yet  in  some  of  the 
qualities  and  characteristics  of  the  works  concerned,  the  sugges- 
tion of  such  comparison  may  be  justified  in  fact.  The  list  of 
popular  living  novelists,  both  British  and  American,  is  so  large 
and  so  familiar  that  it  would  be  both  tedious  and  unnecessary  even 
to  name  them.  Better  is  it  to  discuss  more  in  the  abstract  cer- 
tain peculiarities  and  tendencies  in  the  fiction  of  to-day,  with 
such  helps  through  illustration  as  may  be  gained  from  some  pro- 
minent writers  who  may  be  taken  as  typical,  and  influential 
among  the  rest.  It  is  important  as  well  as  interesting  to  note 
that  fiction  is  at  present  more  international  in  character  than  it 
ever  has  been  before.  We  are  more  generally  familiar  with 
foreign  literature  now  than  were  our  fathers.  Translations  without 
number  and  even  editions  in  the  original  not  a  few  have  given 
us  acquaintance  with  the  leading  novelists  of  Russia,  France,  and 
Spauiy  of  Germany  and  Scandinavia,  Holland  and  Hungary ;  while 


TENDENCIES  OF  TO-DAY,  7 1 

Italy  and  Greece,  not  yet  so  open  to  us  as  the  rest,  are  but  await- 
ing their  turn,  doubtless,  to  be  introduced  to  the  cosmopolitan 
world  by  and  by.  Meanwhile  one  notable  result  of  this  wide- 
spread interchange  in  products  of  this  class  is  the  development  of 
a  general  tendency  in  fiction  and  the  evolution  of  a  *^  school  '* 
which  is  more  evident  and  more  dominant  among  us  than  was 
true  in  the  days  of  Scott,  or  in  those  of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and 
George  Eliot.  The  novelist  of  the  day  is  always  a  philosopher, 
and  his  view  of  life  is  apt  to  be  a  sombre  not  to  say  a 
pessimistic  one. 

The  action  and  reaction  of  literary  influences  at  home  and 
abroad  have  been  more  than  once  referred  to  in  these  pages. 
During  the  first  half  of  the  present  century  the  influ- 
ence of  our  English  Scott  and  Byron  was  strong  in  r^^^c^^ 
the  poetry  and  fiction  of  France.  Victor  Hugo 
( 1 802-1 885)  and  Alexandre  Dumas  (1803-18 70)  were  the  most 
prominent  of  the  school.  In  1831  appeared  "Notre  Dame  de 
Paris,"  and  "  Les  Miserables  "  in  1862.  "  Monte-Cristo,"  the 
most  familiar  to  us  of  Dumas'  romances,  the  titles  of  which  are 
almost  innumerable,  was  published  in  1844.  George  Sand  (1804- 
1876)  had  written  "  Consuelo  "  and  "  La  Comtesse  de  Rudolstadt  " 
during  the  forties.  Her  rustic  romances  were  written  at  the  very 
middle  of  the  century.  The  romanticists,  under  the  rule  of  these 
great  leaders,  dominated  French  fiction  until  a  comparatively  recent 
date.  They  have  been  almost  as  familiar  to  readers  of  English 
novels  as  have  Scott  and  Cooper  themselves.  Since  their  day  a 
new  school  of  novelists  has  claimed  the  stage,  —  a  school  which 
numbers  its  representatives  in  every  European  state  and  in  England 
and  America  as  well.  The  school  of  modern  realism  looks  for  its 
model  back  to  another  great  French  story-teller  of  the  first  half  of 
the  century,  Honor^  de  Balzac  (i 799-1850),  a  contemporary  of 
Hugo  and  Dumas,  having  some  qualities  common  to  them,  but 
distinguished  from  them  by  closer  fidelity  to  nature,  and  by  his 
bold  attempt  to  depict  the  actual  life  of  every  class  composing 
the  structure  of  French  society  in  his  time.  Balzac,  author  of  the 
"  Com^die  Humaine,"  as  he  entitled  the  tremendous  series  pro- 


T2  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

jected  in  his  plan,  was  the  father  of  the  modern  realists.  Fore- 
most of  living  representatives  of  that  school  are  Zola,  Ibsen,  and 
Tolstoi. 

Count  Leof  Tolstoi  (born  1828),  conspicuous  among  the  novelists 
of  Russia,  is  the  author  of  "  Sevastopol,"  "  The  Cossacks,"  "  Peace 
and  War,"  "  Anna  Karenina,"  ''  Ivan  Ilyitch,"  "  Family 
ToStoi^°*       Happiness,"  a  score  of  short  stories,  tracts,  autobiogra- 
j  phical  sketches,  and  —  "  The   Kreutzer  Sonata."     A 

painter  of  strange  fresco  pictures  is  Tolstoi.  The  drawing  is  very 
bold,  the  effect  is  startling.  He  is  a  master  of  realism,  no  one 
can  question  that.  This  artist  in  words  has  painted  battle  pictures 
where  the  smoke,  the  din,  the  red  blood,  the  mortal  horror  of 
war  roll  forth  on  his  pages  as  nowhere  else  except  upon  the  canvas 
of  his  countryman  Verestchagin ;  and  the  latter  has  done  with 
his  brush  what  Tolstoi  accompHshed  with  his  pen.  "  Anna 
Karenina  "  (1877)  is  a  great  novel  of  social  life  \  one  of  the  very 
few  great  works  of  fiction  in  our  day.  In  spite  of  a  sort  of 
crudity,  which  possibly  is  itself  an  element  of  vigor,  the  work 
is  great  in  conception  and  powerful  in  its  effect.  Is  it  real, — 
this  world  into  which  we  are  unceremoniously  introduced?  No 
one  with  a  degree  of  insight  into  the  social  life  of  the  Continent 
will  doubt  the  fidelity  of  the  portraits  drawn  by  Tolstoi.  It  is  a 
hard,  sad  world  he  shows  us,  clouded  over  by  selfishness,  hypo- 
crisy, passion,  despair ;  but  we  cannot  fail  to  recognize  in  time  the 
individualities  that  seemed  at  first  so  grotesque  and  so  deformed. 
We  must  admit  that  this  is  but  the  nakedness  of  truth.  And 
here  is  '*Ivan  Ilyitch,"  a  strange  and  grewsome  story  of  a  man 
who  is  slowly  dying ;  and  a  hundred  pages  detail  the  process  of 
his  death.  Read  "  Ivan  Ilyitch,"  and  you  will  know  how  dis- 
solution, slow,  relentless,  goes  on  in  a  living  man  until  the  death- 
rattle  sounds.  But  you  will  learn  more  than  this,  for  with 
microscopic  exactness  you  will  have  watched  the  development, 
career,  and  end  of  a  self- worshipping,  materialistic  aristocrat.  The 
book  is  the  accurate  study  of  a  type,  and  is  oppressive  with 
reality.  "The  Kreutzer  Sonata"  (1890),  the  last  of  Tolstoi's 
works  to  attract  general  attention  in  America,  was  received  with 


TENDENCIES  OF   TO-DAY. 


73 


surprise,  and  greeted  with  an  outburst  of  indignant  criticism. 
And  yet  it  was  but  the  legitimate  outcome  of  Tolstoi's  mental 
obliquity.  It  is  the  confession  of  a  madman  to  which  the  author 
invites  us  to  listen.  The  method  is  the  same,  that  of  an  intense 
reahsm ;  but  the  words  of  the  madman,  Posdnicheff,  a  murderer 
and  a  lunatic  self-confessed,  are  the  words,  the  sentiments,  the 
belief  of  Tolstoi,  the  author  of  Posdnicheff;  and  they  are  the  words 
of  fanaticism  or  insanity,  however  real  and  true  to  life  the  situa- 
tion may  appear  to  be. 

Next  comes  Emile  Zola  (born  1 840) ,  leader  in  the  school  of  real- 
ism, or,  better,  naturalism,  as  he  prefers  to  have  it  called,  in  France. 

^'  L'Assommoir  '*    was    the    work   which    introduced    ^ 

rr   1  11  TT  .1  Emile  Zolrf. 

Zola  generally  to  our  acquamtance.     Here  there  was 

no  concealment,  no  skilful  draping  of  the  vicious  or  the  horrible  : 
everything  was  realistic  to  the  point  of  nakedness.  "  I  designed 
to  draw  the  Paris  workman,"  said  Zola ;  and  he  drew  him  and  all 
his  environment  with  him.  Almost  the  first  scene  in  the  book  is 
a  realistic  picture  of  a  brutal  hand-to-hand  fight  between  two 
women  of  the  lower  class.  They  meet  at  a  public  wash-house  on  the 
Seine  ;  they  drench  each  other  with  pails  of  water ;  they  scratch  ; 
they  pound  each  other  with  their  clubs ;  they  tear  each  other's 
clothing ;  the  bare  flesh  shows.  Women  stand  about,  and  men, 
gloating.  Coupeau,  the  principal  character  in  the  story,  dies  at 
last  of  dehrium  tremens.  Shut  up  with  him  in  the  padded  cell  at 
the  hospital,  we  see  the  hideous  dance,  and  have  to  hear  his 
frantic  bowlings.  His  besotted  wife  looks  on  with  maudlin  curi- 
osity and  then  goes  tottering  home  to  die,  her  body  being  found 
some  days  afterward,  putrefying  under  the  area  stairs.  This  is 
horrible,  too  horrible  to  be  preserved  in  literature,  but  we  are 
compelled  to  give  reluctant  assent  to  the  awful  realness  of  these 
scenes :  we  can  only  wonder  at  the  relentless  and  terrible  power 
which  thus  affects  us.  The  whole  story  presents  a  tragic  picture 
of  a  drunkard's  progress,  drawn  with  a  greater  mastery  than  was 
ever  shown  by  Hogarth.  The  works  of  Zola  need  not  be 
catalogued  in  these  pages.  The  novel  which  last  excited  criti- 
cism here,  though  not  the  latest  story  from  his  pen,  was  "  La 


74  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

Terre."  What  was  then  said  intelligently  in  its  condemnation 
was  not  too  severe  :  it  is  brutal  and  obscene.  And  yet  it  is  a 
master's  hand  that  paints  these  coarse  pictures,  and  there  is  no 
reason  why  they  should  not  be  conceded  to  present  what  it  is 
claimed  they  do,  —  a  perfectly  faithful  copy  of  the  existence  of  a 
degraded  peasantry,  and  also,  incidentally,  a  glorification  of  "  La 
Terre."  Zola  loves  the  earth;  he  never  tires  of  calhng  our  atten- 
tion to  the  smoking  fecundity  of  the  soil ;  he  revels  in  it ;  he 
touches  the  theme  with  the  spirit  and  the  instinct  of  a  poet. 
Nature,  the  Earth,  —  it  is  typical  of  himself. 

Let  us  turn  for  a  moment  away  from  these  realists  of  St.  Peters- 
burg and  Paris.     Let   us   look  toward  the  north.     And  what  a 

relief  it  is,  —  to  emerge  from  the  crowded  salons  of  the 
RomStiSste"   Russian,  the  social  circles  where  brutality  and  vice  go 

masked,  from  the  heated  poisonous  atmosphere,  the 
mockery,  the  heart-ache ;  away  from  the  reeking  wine-shops  of 
Paris,  the  close  dens  where  vice  throws  off  its  mask  and  rules 
riotously  and  wantonly.  The  madman's  howling,  the  shrieks  of 
women  being  murdered,  echo  in  our  ears.  But  here  the  salt 
air  of  the  wholesome  sea  breathes  in  our  faces.  We  look  across 
the  fields  to  where  the  ocean  beats  calmly  on  the  sands ;  it  is 
the  noise  of  his  waves  which  strikes  restfully  on  our  ear,  and 
nothing  more  harsh  than  the  scream  of  sea-birds  comes  to  dis- 
turb our  peace.  Mists  rise  over  the  water;  the  sun  fills  the  world 
with  its  shining.  Men  and  women  come  and  go  in  all  the  voca- 
tions followed  by  honest  men  and  women.  They  toil  on  land  and 
sea ;  they  fish,  they  plant,  they  trade.  It  is  a  healthy  Hfe  ;  these 
are  bright,  happy,  honest  people.  We  observe  few  drunkards,  the 
thieves  are  less  numerous  than  the  trustworthy.  We  discover 
that  we  are  in  a  world  where  there  is  more  of  aspiration  than  of 
degradation,  where  good  is  stronger  than  evil,  where  right  knows 
how  to  conquer  wrong.  This  is  the  world  which  Bjornson  (born 
1832)  and  his  compatriot,  Jonas  Lie  (born  1833)  have  revealed  to 
us  in  their  romances  of  Norse  life  and  manners.  These  northern 
stories  are  refreshing  :.  '^  Arne,"  "  The  Fisher  Maiden,"  *'  Synnove 
Solbakken,"  "The  Barque  Future,"    "The    Pilot  and  his  Wife.'* 


TENDENCIES   OF   TO-DAY,  75 

In  spite  of  defects  in  construction,  in  spite  of  the  persistence 
of  the  idyllic  in  their  pictures  of  men  and  women,  possibly  because 
of  this  last-named  peculiarity,  we  enjoy  this  world  of  homely 
folk,  its  purity,  its  vigor,  its  healthful  atmosphere. 

Did  the  scope  of  our  essay  permit,  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
discuss  in  detail  the  method  and  purposes  of  another  writer,  who, 
though  not  a  novelist,  must  be  reckoned  third  in  this 
trio  of  the  great  realists :  the  Norwegian  dramatist,  ^^°^^ 
Henrik  Ibsen  (born  1828).  When  Ibsen's  social 
dramas  appeared  first  in  Norway  and  Denmark,  then  in  Germany, 
at  last  in  England  and  America,  they  excited  more  comment  and 
provoked  more  discussion  than  the  novels  of  Tolstoi  or  those  of 
Zola.  Indeed  these  plays  of  Ibsen  are  more  like  novels  in  their 
method  than  any  form  of  the  drama  hitherto  familiar  to  us.  They 
are  social  studies ;  and  although  Ibsen  is  the  fellow-countryman 
of  Bjornson  and  Lie,  the  philosophy  embodied  in  his  work  is  as 
cynical  and  sombre  as  that  of  the  other  two  is  bright  and  reas- 
suring. Here  is  a  man,  a  stranger  among  us,  ill  at  ease  and  out 
of  sorts ;  not  at  all  in  sympathy  with  the  general  spirit  of  our 
institutions,  or  the  thought  of  the  present  time.  He  looks  upon 
society  with  much  the  same  eye  as  Tolstoi;  and  with  all  the 
boldness  and  unconventionality  of  the  Russian,  together  with  a 
realism  more  minute  in  its  regard  to  analysis  and  detail,  Ibsen 
draws  the  characters  of  his  social  dramas,  and  with  wonderful  skill 
paints  the  world  as  he  finds  it.  Where  Lie  and  Bjornson  idealize, 
Ibsen  satirizes ;  but  his  realism  is  employed,  as  is  that  of  Tolstoi, 
in  unmasking  selfishness  and  sham,  not  in  disgusting  minutiae  of 
misery  or  vice. 

Thus  we  now  have  the  three  great  realists  of  the  day,  —  the 
Russian,  the  Frenchman,  the   Norwegian.     Not  only  are    these 
three  writers  typical  of  this  tendency  in  all  the  litera- 
tures of   our  time,    representing,  each  in    his    place,   "^^^^^^ 
popular  studies  of  general  phases  in  national  char- 
acter and  life,  but    they  are  also   commonly   acknowledged  to 
be  the  great  masters  in  this   movement  toward  what  is  called 
fidelity  to  truth,  or,  technically,  realism.     What,  now,  is  to   be 


*]6  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

said  of  their  principles,  their  methods,  their  aims,  —  what,  in  brief, 
of  reahsm :  is  it  to  be  commended  or  condemned ;  is  it  to 
remain  with  us ;  will  it  exalt  our  literature,  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
rob  it  of  what  vitality  it  still  retains  ? 

Carlyle,  in  his  essay  upon  Diderot  (1833),  says :  — 

"  Were  it  not  reasonable  to  prophesy  that  this  exceeding  great  mul- 
titude of  novel-writers  and  such-like,  must,  in  a  new  generation,  grad- 
ually do  one  of  two  things :  either  retire  into  nurseries, 
"^Th*^^^*^^       and  work  for  children,  minors,  and  semi-fatuous  persons 
Carlyle.  of  both  sexes;  or  else,  what  were  far  better,  sweep  their 

novel-fabric  into  the  dust-cart,  and  betake  them  with  such 
faculty  as  they  have  to  understand  and  record  what  is  true^  — of  which, 
surely,  there  is,  and  will  forever  be,  a  whole  Infinitude  unknown  to 
us,  of  infinite  importance  to  us  !  Poetry,  it  will  more  and  more  come 
to  be  understood,  is  nothing  but  higher  Knowledge ;  and  the  only 
genuine  Romance  (for  grown  persons)  Reahty." 

This  prophecy  is  verified;  and  Mr.  Howells,  the  leader  of 
the  reahstic  school  among  American  novelists,  commenting 
sympathetically  upon  it,  observes :  — 

"  For  our  own  part,  we  confess  that  we  do  not  care  to  judge  any 
work  of  the  imagination  without  first  of  all  applying  this  test  to  it. 

We  must  ask  ourselves  before  we  ask  anything  else.  Is  it 
W.D.How-  \x\x^^  —  true  to  the  motives,  the  impulses,  the  principles 
Realism.  that  shape  the  life   of  actual    men  and   women  ?     This 

truth  which  necessarily  includes  the  highest  morality 
and  the  highest  artistry,  —  this  truth  given,  the  book  cannot  be  wicked 
and  cannot  be  weak."  ^ 

Reality  is  certainly  the  demand  of  the  age.     Now,  let  us  ask, 

do  our  great  realists    give  us  reality?     In  the  paragraph  upon 

Defoe  it  was  noted  that  the  epithet  "  realistic  "  as  there 

^1^!?^"^®     ^sed  was  intended  to  suggest  actuality  and  lifelike- 

01  tne  Term  r  1         1       • 

ReaUsm.  ness  secured  by  a  careful  and  mmute  attention   to 

details.     As  expressed  by  one  critic,  the  very  dul- 

ness  of  the  narrative  confirms  the  impression  of  its  truthfulness. 

In  the  application  of  this  term  to-day,  the  technical  meaning  of 

1  Editor's  Study,  Harper's  Monthly,  April,  1887. 


TENDENCIES  OF  TO-DAY.  y^ 

the  word  "  realism ''  is  subordinated  to  a  broader  and  rrrore  popu- 
lar one.  Yet  in  the  narrower  sense  of  the  word,  Tolstoi  and 
Ibsen  and  Zola  are  as  thorough  and  painstaking  realists  as  was 
Defoe ;  in  point  of  accuracy  and  the  recording  of  details  appar- 
ently insignificant,  they  surpass  him.  Used  in  its  broadest  sense 
the  word  "  realism"  to-day  implies  the  character  of  a  novel- 
ist's philosophy  as  well  as  indicates  the  nature  of  his  method.  A 
word  upon  its  significance  in  this  direction  is  therefore  necessary. 

The  mission  of  the  novelist  is  to  picture  life,  —  life  in  some 
special  phase,  in  some  type-form,  if  he  pleases,  but  ever  with 
due  regard  to  the  artistic  finish  and  effect.  Nor  may 
it  be  forgotten  for  a  moment  that  the  artist  who  Jjl^^^ovel. 
constructs  a  drama  or  a  novel,  is  largely  an  impres- 
sionist, while  the  impression,  the  effect,  produced  by  the  work  as 
a  whole,  and  lingering  in  the  mind  of  the  spectator  or  the  reader, 
is  a  thing  for  which  the  artist  is  responsible.  Whatever  we  may  say 
concerning  the  place  of  a  purpose  in  works  of  art,  and  however 
much  we  may  claim  a  standard  of  criticism  that  shall  be  un-moral, 
it  remains  obviously  just  to  hold  the  artist  rigorously  to  his  own 
standard  of  integrity ;  therefore  we  may  well  insist  that  the 
realist  shall  give  us  something  more  than  sensationalism,  that 
there  must  be  accuracy  and  fidelity  in  his  picture,  and  that  the 
impression  he  conveys  shall  be  an  honest  one,  and  reflect  life  as 
it  really  is. 

In  the  world  good  and  evil  are  pretty  generally  mingled.     Is 
there  any  type  in  the  common  life  we  meet  that  is  altogether 
good,  without  a  taint  of  evil  in  its  nature?     Some  of 
our  writers  in  romantic  fiction  apparently  believe  so,  ^f^^ts. 
at  least  they  try  to  suggest  such  un-human  types  in 
their  insipid  story-books.     The  realist  gives  us  no  such  prodigies 
in  his  studies  :  he  paints  only  what  he  finds.     On  the  other  hand, 
does  unmixed  evil  walk  abroad?    Do  fiends  assume  human  shape, 
and  do  lust,  cruelty,  and  hate  become  incarnate  ?     Here  is  a  test 
for  one's  philosophy.     Granted  that  there  be  such  monsters,  is 
it  best  to  see  them,  hear  them,  live  with  them?     This  will  dis- 
close your  taste.     The  case  has  been  put  in  its  two  extremes : 


yS  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

imagine  all  gradations,  and  we  notice  that  the  realism  of  a  writer 
depends  much  upon  his  Lebensanschauung,  his  way  of  looking  at 
life,  the  world,  the  men  and  women  in  it.  One  novelist-philo- 
sopher may  see  the  brightness,  the  happiness,  the  successes,  the 
awards  :  but,  "  No,''  exclaims  another,  "  that 's  a  dream,  a  fancy ; 
you  idealize,  we  want  reality ;  show  us  things  as  they  really  are." 
To  this  the  first  may  very  properly  and  naturally  reply  by  demand- 
ing why  it  is  not  real.  Surely  the  existence  of  virtue  is  not  to 
be  altogether  denied ;  happiness  is  sometimes  found ;  men  may 
prosper  righteously  at  times ;  the  world  is  not  all  misery  and 
doubt  and  gloom.  Now,  as  regards  the  work  of  this  triumvirate 
of  realists  once  more  :  while  no  question  of  their  accuracy  in 
delineation  is  suggested,  their  novels  must  stand  for  what  they 
are,  —  the  faithful  presentation  of  certain  pitiable  phases,  classes, 
individuals ;  not  studies  of  life  as  a  whole,  in  its  vast  extent  and 
infinite  variety.  We  are  ready  to  acknowledge  an  even  micro- 
scopic fidelity  to  the  type  selected ;  but  when  Zola  or  Tolstoi  or 
Ibsen  says,  "  See  !  this  is  life,  this  is  society,  here  is  the  boasted 
institution  you  call  home,  thus  is  the  relation  of  man  and  woman," 
we  reply  with  emphasis  that  that  is  false.  They  have  not  drawn 
our  home,  and  their  society  is  not  the  group  of  people  whom  we 
happen  to  call  friends  :  some  home,  possibly ;  a  certain  corner  of 
society,  no  doubt ;  and  that  there  are  such  people  to  be  found,  yes, 
quite  a  number  of  them,  very  likely ;  but  not  all  are  of  this  sort. 
And  thus,  with  an  authority  as  unimpeachable  as  that  of  these 
cynical  philosophers,  the  optimist  may  with  much  reason  claim 
that  the  realists,  so  called,  either  have  made  a  sad  mistake  in 
their  estimate  of  the  world  at  large,  or  else  are  wilfully  perpetu- 
ating a  slander  and  a  lie.  Very  close,  indeed,  is  the  relation 
between  the  novel  and  the  novelist's  philosophy.  The  cynic  will 
find  his  theme  in  what  another  man  would  disregard ;  the  pessi- 
mist will  seize  a  motive  that  is  sombre.  Yet  no  one  will  deny 
that  such  selection  has  its  legitimate  use,  and  may  under  appro- 
priate conditions  prove  a  means  of  good.  Once  upon  a  time, 
not  so  very  long  ago,  a  novel  was  written  in  this  country  by  an 
American  woman :    a  book  neither  vicious  nor  disgusting,   yet 


TENDENCIES   OF   TO-DAY.  79 

claiming  to  be  realistic,  and,  it  happened,  constructed  with  a 
purpose.  That  book  was  intended  to  depict  a  gigantic  evil :  it 
assumed  to  reveal  to  the  people  of  the  North  the  real  condition 
of  the  negro  at  the  South.  If  it  failed  in  its  realism,  that  was  a 
defect ;  at  all  events,  it  fulfilled  its  mission. 

And  thus  in  the  case  of  our  three  great  realists  of  to-day. 
Here  is  Tolstoi :  he  sees  a  worldly,  sensual,  hypocritical  habit  of 
life.  He  is  himself  the  very  contrast  of  all  this, 
honest,  religious,  ascetic.  He  dwells  upon  these  ^eReaiSs.^^ 
evils  until  he  becomes  morbid  and  fanatical  if  not 
insane.  He  says  :  "  I  '11  show  them  what  their  life  really  is,"  — 
and  so  he  writes  "  Ivan  Ilyitch  "  and  "  The  Kreutzer  Sonata." 
Tolstoi  is  not  to  be  unreservedly  condemned.  His  sincerity 
of  purpose,  his  deep  conviction,  his  complete  renunciation,  his 
absolute  devotion  to  his  stern  ideal,  —  these  have  no  parallels 
in  our  day.  The  more  he  is  read  the  greater  does  admiration 
grow.  This  man,  laboring  like  some  disabled  Titan  caught  in 
the  meshes  of  a  strange  fanaticism,  this  Count  L^of  Tolstoi,  self- 
deposed,  is  to-day  the  most  remarkable  figure  not  alone  among 
literary  workers,  but  absolutely  in  society  and  politics  as  well  as 
art.  We  do  not  comprehend  Tolstoi  until  we  read  his  wonderful 
little  gospel  tales  ;  while  *^  My  Confession  "  is  indispensable  as  a 
commentary  to  "The  Kreutzer  Sonata."  And  here  again  comes 
Ibsen,  more  misanthropic  than  Tolstoi,  for  his  experience  has 
been  such  as  to  confirm  the  feeling  and  intensify  it.  In  his  turn 
he  plans  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  Nature,  show  vice  its  image, 
rouse  men  from  their  self-complacency ;  and  he  constructs  his 
"Comedy  of  Love"  and  "The  Doll  House."  Has  Zola  also  such 
a  motive,  such  a  plea?  Perhaps.  Paris,  France,  is  flooded  with 
romantic  novels.  The  gay,  sensuous  life  of  the  boulevards  and 
the  Jardin  Mabille  is  glorified  in  the  creations  of  Murger  and  his 
disciples.  Vice  is  gilded ;  the  disaster  and  the  ruin  are  care- 
fully concealed.  "  La  Vie  Boheme  "  is  the  ideal  of  the  hour. 
"Out  upon  it  1  "  exclaims  Emile  Zola;  "behold  your  Paris  as  it 
is."  It  is  unjust  to  censure  these  great  masters  blindly  :  if  they 
have  erred,  we  must  first  find  the  point  where  they  went  astray. 


80  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION'. 

Were  it  not  for  the  length  of  the  selection,  there  might  be  in- 
troduced just  here  an  extract  from  the  work  of  another  contem- 
porary Frenchman,  a  novelist  of  wide  repute.  That 
^f^E^**^"*  selection  would  comprise  the  wonderfully  pleasant 
chapter  in  which  Alphonse  Daudet  (born  1840)  so 
gracefully  admits  us  within  the  peaceful,  happy  circle  of  that 
home  in  the  Rue  St.  Ferdinand,  and  allows  us  there  to  make 
acquaintance  with  the  **Joyeuse"  family.  It  is  as  if  our  old 
friend  Dickens  were  at  our  elbow  again,  pointing  out  with  that 
so  genial  humor  and  the  sentiment  so  contagious,  fellow  mortals 
whose  oddities  we  must  smile  over,  while  our  hearts  grow  tender 
toward  them  for  their  virtues  and  their  weaknesses  as  well.  It  is 
true  that  Mr.  Henry  James  has  said  that  the  intrusion  of  this  en- 
tire episode  which  recounts  the  fortunes  of  the  family  "  Joyeuse  " 
is  the  one  defect  in  the  remarkable  novel  which  Daudet  gives  us 
under  the  title  of  "  The  Nabob  "  (1877).  And  Mr.  James  is  too 
authoritative  a  critic  that  we  should  dispute  his  dictum  —  but, 
nevertheless,  we  are  very  glad  that  our  French  story-teller  has 
given  us  to  know  the  eccentric  M.  Joyeuse  and  his  three  charm- 
ing daughters,  and  very  grateful  that  he  introduced  these  cheery, 
amiable  folk  directly  into  the  midst  of  that  same  story  of  the 
Nabob.  For  in  the  pages  which  precede  and  follow  the  idyllic 
picture  of  this  pure  and  healthy  home-life,  Daudet  has  chosen  to 
paint  reaHstically  enough  the  follies,  the  deceptions,  the  cruelties 
of  gay  and  heartless  Paris ;  but  all  through  his  story  there  runs, 
like  a  bar  of  golden  sunlight  streaming  out  through  a  cloudy  sky, 
this  recognition  of  the  other  side.  The  hero  of  the  novel,  Paul 
de  Gery,  has  come  unexpectedly  upon  these  sacred  precincts; 
has  come  as  a  bearer  of  good  tidings  to  people  in  distress.  It  is 
but  a  glimpse  which  he  has  caught  —  a  parlor  table,  books,  papers, 
skeins  of  thread,  a  bevy  of  bright,  sweet,  girlish  faces  looking  up 
curiously  from  their  employment  and  the  big  lamp  shedding  its 
warm  radiance  upon  the  group.  De  Gery  has  fallen  among  them 
weary,  heartsick  at  the  hoUowness  of  the  Paris  he  has  come  to 
know.  This  is  a  contrast  so  complete,  so  reassuring,  that  his 
very  bewilderment  becomes  enchanting. 


TENDENCIES  OF   TO-DAY.  8 1 

"  There  was  here  for  De  Gery  an  entirely  new  Paris,  courageous, 
domestic,  very  different  from  the  one  he  already  knew,  a  Paris  of  whith 
the  newspaper  reporters  never  speak,  and  which  reminded  him  of  his 
province  with  an  added  refinement,  a  charm  lent  by  the  surrounding 
bustle  and  tumult  to  the  peaceful  and  frugal  retreat."  ^ 

Here  is  the  secret.  It  is  not  only  a  perfected  art  that  puts 
Alphonse  Daudet  far  above  Ohnet,  De  Maupassant,  Zola,  and  the; 
other  realists,  great  and  small;  it  is  because  he  has  this  wider! 
vision,  and  paints  the  good  as  well  as  the  evil,  the  pure  and  I 
happy  as  well  as  the  vile  and  wretched.  Daudet  is  not  a  follower 
in  the  school  of  naturalism,  but  he  is  a  truer  realist  than  those 
who  are.  Even  Zola  says  admiringly :  "  Benevolent  nature  has 
placed  him  at  that  exquisite  point  where  poetry  ends  and  reality 
begins  ;"  and  Henry  James  himself  applauds  the  dictum,  adding  : 
"  Daudet*s  great  characteristic  is  this  mixture  of  the  sense  of  the 
real  with  the  sense  of  the  beautiful."  ^  Why  then  need  our 
American  critic  object  to  the  "  Joyeuse  "  episode  in  "The  Nabob "  ? 
Will  he  suggest  that  it  is  not  beautiful,  or  that  it  spoils  the  sym- 
metry of  Daudet's  plan?  Surely  he  will  not  question  its  reality: 
for  we  are  all  becoming  rapidly  convinced  that  there  is  another 
Paris  than  that  which  we  have  been  taught  to  know,  a  Paris  of 
which  the  newspaper  reporters  never  speak.  And  what  is  here 
shown  of  the  other  side  of  this  Parisian  life  is  only  typical  of  all 
the  variety  and  aspect  of  the  wide  world  around  us. 

This  will  be  the  realism  of  the  future.  Along  with  the  careful 
noting  of  details,  the  patient  study  and  accurate  analysis,  the 
fidelity  to  nature,  the  lifelikeness,  men  will  recognize 
the  reasonableness  of  a  philosophy  which  admits  the  ^f  ^^^^^e 
authority  of  this  larger  view.  The  realism  embodied 
will  be  that  of  one  who  has  the  power  to  enter  into  the  life  of 
the  character  he  paints,  to  become  identified  with  its  inner  spirit, 
its  weaknesses,  its  failures,  and  also  with  its  struggles  and  its 
strength.  In  his  choice  of  theme,  the  realist  of  to-morrow  will  be 
guided  by  the  general  need.     Sometimes  he  will  draw  a  repulsive 

^  The  Nabob,  chap.  v. 
2  Partial  Portraits,  p.  208. 
6 


82  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION'. 

picture  if  it  be  necessary  to  startle  or  disgust  us  with  a  revelation 
of  some  abuse  to  be  corrected,  or  some  great  wrong  which  de- 
mands relief.  But  oftener  he  will  introduce  "  the  other  side," 
because  it  has  the  power  to  stimulate  and  inspire.  Hope  is 
stronger  than  fear.  The  story  of  a  victory  is  more  effective  than 
the  record  of  defeat.  Shall  we  find  such  themes  in  real  life,  will 
it  not  spoil  the  realism  to  tint  it  thus  with  ideality?  There  was  a 
painting  greatly  talked  about  not  long  since  ;  heralded  everywhere 
as  a  masterpiece  of  realistic  art.  Is  the  "  Angelus  '*  any  wise  defec- 
tive in  its  realism  because  it  depicts  the  two  bent  peasant  figures 
at  the  moment  when  the  prayer- bell  sounds,  —  because  a  senti- 
ment of  aspiration,  a  lifting  up  of  the  rude  natures,  is  discernible 
amid  the  darkening  shadows?  It  is  certain  that  the  picture  would 
not  have  charmed  us  more,  probably  it  would  not  have  impressed 
us  as  a  whit  more  realistic,  had  Millet  seen  fit  to  paint  his  peas- 
ants fighting  or  carousing  at  a  boorish  village  festival.  We  may 
speak  of  the  unmoral  character  of  art  as  profoundly  and  insistently 
as  we  please  ;  and  Mr.  Howells  may  reiterate  his  statement,  —  "this 
truth  given,  the  book  cannot  be  wicked  and  cannot  be  weak  "  :  it 
will  nevertheless  remain  a  fact  that  responsibility  lies  with  the 
painter  or  the  novelist  for  the  theme  each  chooses,  and  for  the 
method  of  the  treatment.  Fidelity  to  nature  is  not  the  only  test 
of  good  art ;  nor  can  we  think  this  is  precisely  what  Mr.  Howells 
wished  to  say.  Brouwer  and  Van  Ostad  and  Teniers  and  Jan 
Steen  may  evoke  a  lurking  smile  as  we  watch  their  grotesque,  in- 
decent merry-makings;  we  may  call  it  realistic,  very ;  but  after 
all  we  are  conscious  of  a  higher  art  than  this.  We  may  prefer 
some  of  those  earlier  pictures  even,  stiff,  conventional  perhaps,  but 
with  a  soul  of  some  sort  that  illuminates  and  transfigures.  Now, 
if  we  can  keep  the  soul  and  still  be  true  to  nature  in  color  and  in 
drawing,  we  shall  achieve  the  art  we  seek ;  and  we  shall  find  that 
the  result  is  beautiful  as  well  as  true.  There  is  more  than  tech- 
nique in  a  painting  as  there  is  more  than  correct  versifying  in  a 
true  poem;  there  is,  too,  something  besides  mere  accuracy  of 
reproduction  in  a  great  novel.  Thus  with  our  realists,  while  the 
power  of  each  is  such  that  we  can  but  wonder  and  admire,  we  are 


TENDENCIES  OF   TO-DAY,  83 

at  the  same  time,  conscious  of  a  higher  art  than  theirs.  There  are 
principles  of  beauty  and  of  truth  which  do  not  find  a  place  in 
their  conception  of  humanity,  or  their  theory  of  life,  however  real 
a  copy  of  individuals  and  types  their  work  may  appear  to  be. 

In  a  very  important  respect,  therefore,  the  novel  of  to-morrow 
will  surpass  the  study  of  to-day.  We  shall  recognize  the  fact  that 
it  is  not  a  product  of  mere  mechanical  construction, 
but  that  it  is  a  work  of  art,  subject  to  the  same  con-  ^^^^l^^ 
ditions  and  the  same  tests  which  apply  to  other  art 
products,  whether  presented  to  the  mind  through  ear  or  eye. 
Our  novelists  have  gained  indisputably  as  regards  accuracy  and 
fidelity  in  their  study  of  types ;  they  have  as  certainly  lost  in 
artistic  taste  and  power.  The  older  story-tellers  were  masters  of 
dramatic  situation,  of  a  sentiment  that  colors  and  enlivens,  and 
of  what  the  painter,  perhaps,  might  describe  as  "  composition,"  — 
an  instinctive  selection  and  tasteful  grouping  of  incidents  and 
characters  that  satisfy  our  intuitions  of  the  attractive  and  the 
fitting.  Moreover,  many  of  the  novelists  of  yesterday,  the  great 
ones  of  the  craft,  were  masters  of  expression ;  and  it  is  notorious 
that  to-day  even  the  most  prominent  of  our  workers  in  fiction  are 
careless  and  slovenly  in  their  workmanship,  and  apparently  ob- 
livious to  the  demands  of  good  style.  Particularly  have  defects 
of  this  kind  marred  the  compositions  of  our  American  represen- 
tatives in  the  realistic  school.  The  work  of  W.  D.  Howells  and 
Henry  James,  leaders  in  this  group  of  writers,  has  been  widely 
criticised,  and  justly,  for  an  evident  lack  of  a  naturally  dramatic 
spirit.  Their  stories  are  trivial  and  commonplace,  not  in  the 
sense  of  dealing  with  the  every-day  event  and  the  every-day  man 
and  woman  —  George  Eliot's  novels  do  that  —  but  in  the  sense 
that  they  fail  to  depict  anything  of  particular  importance  in  the 
life  of  the  every-day  man  or  woman.  They  lack  vigor  of  combat 
and  struggle,  and  mere  newspaper  records  seldom  attain  the  cTig- 
nity  o?  being  recognized  as  art.  Mr.  James  has  more  to  answer 
for  in  this  regard  than  has  Mr.  Howells,  whose  characters,  as  in 
stories  like  "A  Modern  Instance,"  "The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham," 
and  "  The  Quality  of  Mercy,"  do  appear  now  and  then  in  stress- 


84  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

ful  situations,  giving  us  incidents  and  experiences  which  by  nature 
are  dramatic  and  legitimately  of  interest  to  every  lover  of  man- 
kind. The  novels  of  both  writers  are  marvellous  examples  of 
close  observation  and  microscopic  analysis ;  but,  unhappily,  Mr. 
James  has  impressed  his  readers  with  the  feeling  that  the  life  of 
his  characters  has  been  fairly  analyzed  away.  He  has  lost  his 
appreciation  of  dramatic  effect,  whatever  may  be  said  of  his  taste 
for  the  picturesque  and  the  artistic.  And  so  with  the  host  of 
minor  writers,  who  with  remarkable  evenness  in  ability  plod  away 
patiently  and  conscientiously  on  realistic  lines.  Their  philosophy, 
in  the  main,  is  saner  and  more  wholesome  than  that  of  the  conti- 
nental realists ;  but  in  the  matter  of  artistry  Zola  and  Tolstoi  are 
far  in  advance  of  our  own  leaders. 

There  are  already  signs  of  a  general  breaking  away  from  the 
stricter  traditions  of  the  realists.     While  there  is  no  disposition, 

apparently,  to  return  to  the  precise  methods  of  Scott 
Li  Tas?e^^         and  Hugo,  of  Cooper  or  of  George  Sand,  there  is  at 

the  same  time  a  tendency  to  introduce  idyllic  color- 
ing here  and  there,  which  may  be  evidence  of  a  quickened  per- 
ception that  there  is  need  of  this  artistic  quality  so  long  absent 
from  our  work.  Not  only  are  there  men  like  Robert  Louis  Ste- 
venson and  Conan  Doyle,  by  whom  the  story-telling  art  seems  to 
have  been  inherited  with  much  of  the  vigor  and  spirit  of  the  past, 
but  other  writers  who  are  followmg  the  example  of  Thomas  Hardy 
and  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  foremost  among  English  realists; 
these  last-named  novelists  have  certainly  developed  more  of  the 
dramatic  in  their  compositions  than  have  their  American  contem- 
poraries, their  great  admirers.  The  writers  of  short  stories,  in 
both  England  and  America,  are  showing  the  effect  of  this  ten- 
dency in  the  admirable  quality  of  their  work.  No  one  desires 
again  the  precise  forms  and  molds  of  the  old-school  romances. 
Not  only  has  the  fashion  of  the  ultra-heroic  gone  by,  together 
with  the  philosophy  of  an  infallible  readjustment,  which  shall 
bring  material  prosperity  in  the  end  to  virtue  and  beauty  in  dis- 
tress, but  a  fashion  more  true  to  nature,  and  a  newer  and  truer 
philosophy  of  the  realities  of  human  experience  and  the  highest 


TENDENCIES  OF  TO-DAY.  85 

I 

good,  are  ready  to  come  in.     We  cannot  go  back  to  the  days  of 

chivalry  or  the  realms  of  fairy-land  when  story-telling  for  Car- 
lyle's  "grown  folks."  And  this  will  ever  be  the  glory  of  the 
realist  of  to-day  \  he  has  brought  us  out  of  the  enchanted  woods 
of  romance,  and  set  us  with  our  faces  toward  the  world  of  real 
things  in  which  we  properly  belong.  Whether  our  taste  shall 
call  for  stories  that  amuse,  or  studies  that  instruct;  whether  the 
fiction  of  the  future  is  to  develop  oftenest  the  novel  of  recreation 
or  the  novel  of  purpose,  one  thing  is  certain,  our  readers  will  in 
all  cases  demand  the  counterfeit  presentment  of  the  truth,  por- 
traits of  humanity,  and  not  grotesque  creations  of  a  dream.  The 
realist  of  the  present,  like  many  another  innovator,  has  wrought 
with  crudeness  and  with  inexperience,  as  well  as  with  sincerity 
and  vigor;  he  has  been  erratic  sometimes,  and  now  and  then 
there  have  occurred  some  shocking  violations  of  good  taste. 
Possibly  the  extremely  "practical"  character  of  the  time  in 
which  we  live  has  debased  the  quality  of  his  art,  as  the  strongly 
materialistic  sentiment  of  our  day  has  undeniably  impressed  its 
stamp  on  our  philosophy.  Novel-making  has  grown  to  be  a 
somewhat  mechanical  trade  of  late,  and  men  have  wrought  sto- 
ries, as  they  weave  fabrics  or  work  in  metals,  for  the  money  in  it. 
It  is  not  among  such  scribblers  that  the  great  novelist  is  born ; 
when  he  comes,  he  will  be  recognized.  Present-day  realism, 
moreover,  is  not  a  climax ;  it  is  only  an  episode  in  the  history 
of  fiction,  the  natural  sequence  of  the  romantic  craze  which  ruled 
the  first  half-century.  It  has  deteriorated  in  most  respects  from 
the  standard  set  by  Thackeray  and  George  Eliot ;  but  that  is  due 
not  so  much  to  different  methods  as  to  dearth  of  genius  in  ap- 
plying them.  In  its  turn  a  new  and  better  phase  will  be  devel- 
oped, not  one  whit  less  realistic;  on  the  contrary,  far  more 
instinct  with  life  and  humanity  than  now.  Moreover,  it  will  at- 
tain the  place  of  a  work  of  art ;  it  will  be  beautiful  as  well  as 
true. 


86  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 


VL 

BOOKS  FOR  REFERENCE  AND  READING. 

The  following  list  of  books  is  by  no  means  exhaustive,  but  is 
intended  to  suggest  reading  that  will  be  helpful,  and  contains 
those  works  which  are  generally  accessible  as  well  as  valuable  for  * 
reference. 

For  information  concerning  the  early  English  story-tellers,  con- 
sult Ten  Brink's  "  Early  English  Literature,"  Stopford  Brooke's 
recent  volume  bearing  the  same  title,  and  early  volumes  in  the 
series  entitled  "  English  Writers,"  by  Henry  Morley.  Refer  also 
to  Green's  "  Short  History  of  the  English  People  "  and  Freeman's 
"Norman  Conquest."  Jusserand's  "English  Wayfaring  Life  in 
the  Middle  Ages,"  "  Social  England  "  (a  series  of  valuable  essays 
compiled  by  H.  D.  Traill),  and  "  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales" 
('*  with  illustrations  of  English  hfe  in  Chaucer's  time  "),  by  John 
Saunders,  are  valuable  for  reference  upon  manners  and  customs. 
Read  "  Ivanhoe." 

Upon  the  times  and  people  of  Elizabeth's  reign,  read  Creighton's 
"Age  of  Elizabeth"  (Epochs  of  History  series),  and  Goadby's 
"England  of  Shakespeare."  For  general  reference,  use  Burk- 
hardt's  "  Renaissance,"  Froude's  "  History  of  England,"  and 
Green's  "  Short  History."  Read  Taine's  "  History  of  English  Lit- 
erature "  and  Saintsbury's  "  Elizabethan  Literature."  On  Lyly 
and  the  Euphuists,  consult  Minto's  "  Manual  of  English  Prose 
Literature."  Jusserand's  "  The  English  Novel  in  the  Time  of 
Shakespeare  "  will  be  found  of  particular  value  in  the  study  of  this 
period.  Scott's  "  Kenilworth  "  and  Kingsley's  "Westward  Ho" 
depict  scenes  and  characters  of  the  time.  In  the  encyclopaedias, 
particularly  in  the  "  Britannica,"  will  be  found  many  articles  of 


BOOKS  FOR  REFERENCE   AND  READING,  87 

interest  and  value  bearing  upon  the  literature  of  this  age.  Edi- 
tions of  the  romancers  are  rare,  and  outside  the  works  referred  to, 
there  are  not  many  books  of  biography  or  criticism  which  deal 
directly  with  the  story-tellers  of  Elizabeth's  day.  The  standard 
editions  of  their  works  are  those  by  Edward  Arber,  Edmund 
Gosse,  Alexander  B.  Grosart,  and  David  Laing.  Ticknor's  "  His- 
tory of  Spanish  Literature  "  is  our  best  authority  upon  the  ro 
mances  of  Spain,  and  Sismondi's  "  Literature  of  the  South  c. 
Europe  '*  will  be  found  of  value  in  a  study  of  the  Spanish  and 
ItaUan  literature  of  this  period. 

Eighteenth-century  England  has  been  graphically  described 
by  Lecky,  in  his  "  England  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,"  and 
by  W.  C.  Sydney,  in  a  recent  work,  "  England  and  the  Eng- 
lish in  the  Eighteenth  Century."  "The  History  of  English 
Thought,"  by  Leslie  Stephen,  and  Lecky's  "  History  of  Euro- 
pean Morals,"  will  be  of  use.  "  Eighteenth-Century  Litera- 
ture^' is  the  title  of  a  volume  by  Edmund  Gosse.  Various 
studies  of  the  fiction  of  this  period  and  of  the  periods  follow- 
ing have  been  made  by  different  writers;  prominent  among 
these  are  the  following:  "A  History  of  English  Prose  Fiction," 
by  B.  Tuckerman  ;  *^  British  Novelists  and  their  Styles,"  by  David 
Masson  \  **  Novels  and  Novelists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,"  by 
William  Forsyth;  Dunlop's  "History  of  Fiction;"  Jeaffreson's 
•'  Novels  and  Novelists ; "  Hazlitt's  "English  Novehsts ; "  G.  Birk- 
beck  Hill's  "  Writers  and  Readers ;  "  "  The  EngUsh  Novel,"  by 
Sidney  Lanier;  and  appropriate  chapters  in  Thomas  Sargent 
Perry's  "  English  Literature  in  the  Eighteenth  Century."  Taine's 
chapters  upon  the  novelists  are  also  invaluable.  A  useful  and 
valuable  aid  to  the  student  is  W.  M.  Griswold's  "Descriptive 
Lists  of  Novels,"  classified  by  nationality,  locality,  and  kind, 
with  criticisms  from  contemporary  journals.  Read  Thackeray 
(in  "English  Humorists")  upon  Addison,  Steele,  Swift,  Fielding, 
Smollett,  Sterne,  and  Goldsmith.  Augustine  Birrell  has  some 
bright  essays  on  Richardson,  Swift,  and  Sterne.  For  criticism 
upon  style  consult  Minto.  Lives  of  Addison,  Steele,  Defoe, 
Fielding,  Sterne,  Goldsmith,  Scott,  Dickens,  and  Thackeray  are 


88  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

included  in  the  English  Men  of  Letters  series.  Lives  of  Dickens, 
Charlotte  Bront^,  Smollett,  Goldsmith,  Scott,  Marryat,  George 
Eliot,  Jane  Austen,  Thackeray,  are  found  in  the  Great  Writers' 
series.  In  the  "Century  Magazine  "  for  July,  1893,  is  an  article 
by  Mrs.  M.  O.  W.  Oliphant  upon  "  The  Author  of  <  Gulliver ; '  " 
in  the  September,  1893,  number  of  the  "Century,"  one  by  the 
same  writer,  upon  "  The  Author  of  *  Robinson  Crusoe.'  "  In 
"Scribner's  Magazine"  for  September,  1893,  is  a  paper  by 
Austin  Dobson,  entitled  "  Richardson  at  Home."  The  standard' 
authority  upon  Scott  is  the  life  of  that  writer  by  his  son-in-law,  J. 
G.  Lockhart.  The  authoritative  biography  of  Charles  Dickens  is 
the  work  by  John  Forster.  Our  best  record  of  George  Eliot  is 
found  in  the  "  Life  and  Letters,"  edited  by  her  husband,  J.  W. 
Cross.  For  information  regarding  recent  French  novelists,  con- 
sult the  late  encyclopaedias.  "  French  Poets  and  NoveHsts,"  a 
series  of  essays,  by  Henry  James,  will  be  of  particular  service  j  and 
"Famous  French  Authors,"  papers  by  Gautier  and  De  Mirecourt 
(translated  by  Francis  A.  Shaw),  Worthington,  New  York,  1879, 
if  accessible,  will  be  of  use.  Several  small  volumes  of  criticism 
have  been  recently  published  by  writers  who  are  themselves 
novelists ;  among  these  are  "  Criticism  and  Fiction,"  by  W.  D. 
Howells ;  "The  Novel :  What  It  Is,"  by  F.  Marion  Crawford  ;  and 
"The  Experimental  Novel,  and  Other  Essays,"  by  Emile  Zola. 

A  recent  volume  dealing  with  the  Russian  novelists  is  "Russia  : 

Its  People  and  its  Literature,"  by  Emilia  Pardo  Bazan  (translated 

I  by  Fanny  Hale  Gardiner),  A.  C.  McClurg,  Chicago. 

||     Consult  also  "The  Great  Masters  of  Russian  Literature,"  by 

I  Ernest  Dupuy  (translated  by  Nathan   Haskell   Dole),  Crowell, 

New  York,  1886. 


BOOKS  FOR  REFERENCE  AND  READING. 


89 


ONE    HUNDRED   WORKS    OF   FICTION 
Which^  for  one  reason  or  another^  are  quite  worth  reading. 


.  .  .  Sir  Thomas  Malory 
.  .Daniel  Defoe,  1661-1731; 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  1 728-1 774 
.     .    Jane  Austen,  1 775-1 81 7 


Sir  Walter  Scott,  177 1-1832 


1.  Morte  d' Arthur  (about  1470) 

2.  Robinson  Crusoe  (1719)  . 

3.  Vicar  of  Wakefield  (1766) 

4.  Sense  and  Sensibility  (181 1) 

5.  Pride  and  Prejudice  (18 12) 

6.  Waverley  (18 14)      .     . 

7.  Guy  Mannering  (18 15) 

8.  The  Antiquary  (18 16) 

9.  Old  Mortality  (1816)   . 

10.  Rob  Roy  (1817)  .    .     . 

11.  Heart  of  Midlothian  (1818) 

12.  Bride  of  Lammermoor  (18 19) 

13.  Ivanhoe  (1819)    .     .     . 

14.  The  Abbot  (1820)    .     . 

15.  Kenil worth  (1821)    .     . 

16.  Quentin  Durward  (1823) 

17.  The  Talisman  (1825)  . 

18.  The  Spy  (1821)  .     .     . 

19.  The  Pilot  (1824)      .     .     . 

20.  Last  of  the  Mohicans  (1826) 

21.  The  Pathfinder  (1840)      .     . 

22.  The  Deerslayer  (1841).     .     . 

23.  Wing  and  Wing  (1842)    .     . 

24.  Peter  Simple  (1833) Frederick  Marryat,  1792-1848 

25.  Mr.  Midshipman  Easy  (1834)   .     .  "  " 

26.  Last  Days  of  Pompeii 

(1834) Edward  George  Bulwer-Lytton,  1805-1873 

27.  Rienzi,  Last  of  the  Tri- 


James  Fenimore  Cooper,  1 789-1851 


bunes  (1835)   ...           " 

28. 

Last  of  the  Barons  (1843)       « 

29. 

Harold,  Last  of  the  Sax- 

ons (1848)   ....          " 

30. 

The  Caxtons  (1849)     •           " 

31. 

Pickwick  Papers  (1837)   .     .     .    . 

32. 

Oliver  Twist  (1838) 

33. 

Nicholas  Nickleby  (1839)    •    •    • 

Charles  Dickens,  181 2-1870 


90  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

34.  Old  Curiosity  Shop  (1840) Charles  Dickens 

35.  Barnaby  Rudge  (1841)     .     . "  « 

16,  Martin  Chuzzlewit  (1844) "  " 

2iT.  Dombey  and  Son  (1848) "  " 

38.  David  Copperfield  (1850)     .......  "  " 

39.  Bleak  House  (1853) "  « 

40.  Tale  of  Two  Cities  (1859) "  " 

41.  Jane  Eyre  (1847) Charlotte  Bronte,  1816-1855 

42.  Vanity  Fair  (1848)  .      William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  1811-1863 

43.  Pendennis  (1850)     .  "  "  " 

44.  Henry  Esmond  (1852)        "  "  " 

45.  The  Newcomes  (1854)        "  «  " 

46.  The  Virginians  (\^S9T       "  "  " 

47.  The  Scarlet  Letter  (1850)     .    .  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  1804-1864 

48.  House  of  the  Seven  Gables 

(1851) "  « 

49.  The  Marble  Faun  (i860)      .     .  "  " 

50.  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  (1852)  .     .     Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  b.  1812 

51.  Hypatia  (1853) Charles  Kingsley,  1819-1875 

52.  Westward  Ho!  (1855)      ....  "  " 

53.  Hereward  the  Wake  (1866)  ...  "  " 

54.  John  Halifax,  Gentleman 

(1856) Dinah  Mulock  Craik,  1826-1887 

SS^  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth 

(1861) Charles  Reade,  1814-1884 

tfi.  Elsie  Venner  (1861)     ....    Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  b.  1809 

ST.  Adam  Bede  (1858)       ....    George  Eliot  (Mary  Ann  Evans, 

Mrs.  Cross)  18 19-1880 

58.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  (i860) George  Eliot 

f59.  Silas  Marner  (1861) "  ** 

60.  Romola  (1863) "  « 

61.  Middlemarch  (1871) "  " 

62.  The  Man  Without  a  Country    .     .  Edward  Everett  Hale,  b.  1822 

63.  Lorna  Doone R.  D.  Blackmore,  b.  1825 

64.  A  Daughter  of  Heth T     William  Black,  b.  1841 

65.  John  Inglesant J.  H.  Shorthouse,  b.  1834 

66.  All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of 

Men Besant,  b.  1838 ;   Rice,  1844- 188 2 

6l.  A  Modern  Instance      .......    W.  D.  Howells,  b.  1837 

68.  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham "  « 

69.  A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes      .    .    ,    ,         «  « 


70. 
71- 

72. 


BOOKS  FOR  REFERENCE  AND  READING,  9 1 

The  Grandissimes George  W.  Cable,  b.  1845 

But  Yet  a  Woman Arthur  S.  Hardy,  b.  1847 

Robert  Elsmere Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  b.  185 1 

73.  David  Grieve 

74.  Marcella 

75.  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles Thomas  Hardy,  b.  1840 

76*.    Greifenstein F.  Marion  Crawford,  b.  1854 

77.  Saracinesca 

78.  Sant'  Ilario 

79.  Don  Orsino 

80.  Pietro  Ghisleri .  "  " 

Continental  Fiction, 

81.  Don  Quixote  (1605) Cervantes,  1547-1616 

82.  Wilhelm  Meister  (1796) Goethe,  1749-1832 

83.  Corinne  (1807)       ......     Madame  de  Stael,  1 766-181 7 

84.  The  Betrothed  (1822) *    Manzoni,  1785-1873 

85.  Consuelo  (1844) George  Sand,  1804-1876 

86.  Countess  of  Rudolstadt "  " 

87.  Count  of  Monte  Cristo  (1844)      ....  A.  Dumas,  1802-1870 

88.  The  Wandering  Jew  (1845)    ....     Eugene  Sue,  1804-1859 

89.  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame  (1831)  .     .    Victor  Hugo,  1802-1885 

90.  Les  Misdrables  (1862) " 

91.  Synnove  Solbakken  (1857) B.  Bjornson,  b.  1832 

92.  Taras  Bulba  (1834) .     .     N.  Gogol,  1 809-1 852 

93.  War  and  Peace  (i  865-1 868)  .     .     .  Count  Ldof  Tolstoi,  b.  1828 

94.  Anna  Kardnina  (1^75-1 878)    ..."  "           " 

95.  Crime  and  Punishment  (1868)     .  F.  M.  Dostoyevsky,  1821-1881 

96.  With  Fire  and  Sword  (1890) Henryk  Sienkiewicz 

97.  The  Deluge  (1891) "                " 

98.  Jack  (1873) •     Alphonse  Daudet,  b.  1840 

99.  The  Nabob  (1877) **             " 

100.  Numa  Roumestan  (1882)    ....             **             ** 


SELECTIONS. 


94  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 


I.   BEOWULF. 

[The  national  epic  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  was  composed  in  the  form 
preserved  to  us  apparently  in  the  seventh  or  eighth  century,  although  its  first 
conceptions  go  back  to  a  date  two  or  three  hundred  years  earlier,  while  the 
unique  manuscript  which  supplies  our  text  is  doubtless  the  transcription  of 
some  monkish  editor  of  the  ninth  century.  For  interesting  and  detailed  dis- 
cussions of  the  authorship,  locality,  historical  allusions,  and  mythology  of 
the  poem,  consult  Morley's  ''English  Writers,"  Vol.  I.,  Brooke's  "History 
of  Early  English  Literature,"  Ten  Brink's  '*  Early  English  Literature,"  and 
Taine's  "  English  Literature,"  Vol.  I.  Various  editions  of  this  poem  have 
been  edited  in  England,  Germany,  and  America,  among  which  the  edition  by 
Harrison  and  Sharp  (Ginn  and  Company,  Boston,  1888),  based  upon  the 
text  of  the  German  editor,  Moritz  Heyne,  will  be  most  accessible  to  American 
students.  There  are  a  number  of  fairly  good  versions  of  "  Beowulf  *'  in  mod- 
ern English.  That  by  James  M.  Garnett  (Ginn  and  Company,  1891)  is  de- 
signed to  follow  the  original  closely  in  form  and  spirit,  and  is  as  acceptable 
as  any.  During  the  year  1892  two  translations  were  offered,  one  in  prose 
by  Professor  John  Earle  of  the  University  of  Oxford,  the  other  in  modern 
measures  by  Professor  J.  Leslie  Hall  (D.  C.  Heath  and  Company,  Boston). 
There  is  also  a  rhymed  translation  by  H.  W.  Lumsden  (London,  1881). 

The  poem  of  Beowulf  contains  some  six  thousand  short,  or  half-verses, 
according  to  the  usual  arrangement  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  although  the 
half-verses  are  generally  doubled,  thus  forming  the  ordinary  line.  The  rhyme 
principle  is  that  of  alliteration,  the  initial  consonants  of  two  accented  syl- 
lables in  the  first  half-verse  and  of  one  such  syllable  in  the  second  being  the 
same,  the  number  and  position  of  the  alliterating  syllables  not,  however, 
remaining  invariable.  The  rhythm  of  the  verses  is  pronounced,  and  appro- 
priate to  the  sort  of  chant  with  which  they  were  delivered.  The  most 
prominent  peculiarity  of  the  oldest  English  poetry  is  the  use  of  parallelism, 
that  is,  the  repetition  of  ideas  in  a  changed  phraseology.  A  ship,  for  ex- 
ample, is  alluded  to  in  one  of  the  sections  of  this  poem  as  the  wave-trav- 
erser,  the  sea-wood,  the  floater,  the  curved  prow,  etc.;  and  the  ocean  is 
described  in  the  same  passage  as  the  water-mounds,  the  sea-paths,  and  the 
swan-road.  There  is  always  great  vigor  and  poetic  beauty  in  the  epithets 
applied.  The  following  selection,  containing  the  account  of  Beowulf's 
struggle  with  the  sea-monster,  comprises  verses  1384-1643.  The  translation 
is  based  upon  the  text  of  Alfred  Holder  (Freiburg  in  Baden  and  Tubingen. 
1884),  and  contains  many  borrowings  from  the  versions  produced  by  Garnett 
and  Hall.] 


BEOWULF,  95 


I. 

HOW  BEOWULF  VISITED  THE  SEA- CAVE  AND  SLEW  GRENDEL'S  MOTHER. 
HE  FIRST  COMFORTS  HROTHGAR  FOR  THE  LOSS  OF  HIS  THANE 
iESCHERE. 

Beowulf  spake,  son  of  Ecgtheow :  *3^ 

"  Sorrow  not  sage  one  !  for  each  is  it  better 

His  friend  to  avenge  than  to  mourn  over- much. 

Each  of  us  end  must  bide 

Of  life  in  this  world  :  let  him  work  out  who  may 

Glory  ere  death  !     That  is  for  a  warrior. 

Gone  from  the  living,  afterward  best. 

Arise,  royal  warder  \  let  us  quickly  forth  fare 

Of  Grendel's  kin  the  track  to  discover. 

I  promise  it  thee  she  shall  not  find  shelter 

Nor  in  the  earth's  bosom,  nor  in  wood  of  the  mountain, 

Nor  at  bottom  of  ocean,  go  where  she  will. 

This  day  through,  do  thou  have  patience 

In  each  of  thy  woes,  as  I  ween  that  thou  wilt." 

Leaped  up  then  the  old  leader,  and  God  he  thanked, 

The  Almighty,  for  what  the  man  spake. 

Then  was  for  Hrothgar  the  chieftain's  horse  bridled,  '*"* 

The  curly-maned  steed.     The  clever  prince 

Went  splendidly  furnished.     Stepped  forth 

The  troop  of  the  linden- wood  bearers.     Tracks  were 

Wide  long  the  wood-paths  clear  to  be  seen. 

Her  way  o'er  the  bottoms  onward  she  made 

Across  murky  moor-land  ;  of  knightly  thanes  bore 

Lifeless,  the  noblest,  the  best 

Of  those  who  with  Hrothgar  home  defended. 

Traversed  he  then,  child  of  the  aethelings, 

Steep  stony  slopes,  narrow  courses. 

Strait  single  paths,  unknown  leadings. 

Precipitous  headlands,  haunts  of  the  nickers. 


96  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

He,  one  of  few,  fared  on  before  them, 

He  one  of  the  wise  ones,  the  land- scape  to  scan, 

Until  unawares  he  mountain  trees 

Found  o'er  the  hoary  stones  hanging. 

Wood  dismal  and  joyless ;  water  stood  under 

Restless  and  turbid.     To  all  the  Danes  't  was. 

To  the  friends  of  the  Scyldings  fright  and  fierce  anger, 

To  many  a  thane  sorrow  and  sadness. 

To  all  of  the  earls  anguish,  when  after 

On  the  holm- cliff  they  found  ^schere's  head. 

The  flood  boiled  with  blood,  —  the  folk  gazed  in  horror,  - 

With  hot  gore.     At  times  the  horn  sang 

The  battle-song  ready.     All  the  band  rested. 

There  they  saw  in  the  water  of  monster-kind  many. 

Marvellous  mere- dragons  dart  through  the  waters. 

Sea-nickers  also  on  the  ness-slopes  a-sleeping 

Such  as  at  mid- day  gleefully  mingle 

In  some  fateful  foray  afar  on  the  sail-road. 

Sea-worms  and  monsters  :  they  sped  on  their  mission 

Furious,  frantic ;  they  noted  the  uproar. 

Clang  of  the  war-horn.     The  prince  of  the  Geats 

With  his  arrowed  bow  robbed  one  of  life, 

Ended  his  sea-strife,  so  that  in  his  vitals  stood 

The  war-arrow  hard.     He  was  in  the  holm 

Slower  at  swimming  whom  death  stole  away. 

Soon  he  was  in  the  current  with  boar- spears 

Keen- pointed  hardily  grappled. 

Fiercely  attacked  and  to  the  ness  tugged,  — 

The  wondrous  wave-beater.     All  the  men  stared 

At  the  horrible  monster.     Beowulf  girded  him. 

Put  on  his  war-gear  ;  not  for  life  was  he  anxious. 

The  war-bumie  should,  the  hand-woven  corselet, 

Broad  and  gold-adorned,  seek  out  the  sea-bottom. 

That  which  the  bone-chamber  well  would  protect, 

That  his  breast  by  the  battle-grip  might  not  be  injured ; 

The  attack  of  the  raging  one  bring  scath  to  his  body. 


BEOWULF,  97 

But  the  bright  shining  helmet  guarded  his  head, 

That  in  the  mere- depths  should  be  bathed  by  the  sea ; 

Adorned  with  rich  treasure  should  seek  out  the  surges ; 

Encircled  with  jewels  as,  in  the  days  that  were  by  gone, 

The  weapon-smith  wrought  it,  wondrously  worked  it, 

Set  a  wild-boar's  crest  above  it,  that  never  thereafter 

Brand  might  it  bite  or  battle-sword  harm  it. 

That  was  not  then  of  good  helpers  the  smallest. 

That  in  his  need  Hrothgar's  herald  now  loaned  him  : 

To  that  hilted  hand-sword  had  the  name  Hrunting  been  given, 

That  was  one  of  the  foremost  amongst  the  old  treasures. 

The  edge  was  of  iron  with  poison-twigs  painted ; 

Hardened  with  battle-gore,  never  failed  it  in  battle 

Any  man  of  all  those  who  with  right  hand  had  clasped  it. 

He  who  the  horror-paths  ventured  to  travel, 

The  folk-place  of  fighters.     That  was  not  now  the  first  time 

That  by  it  heroic  deeds  should  be  done. 

Not  now  did  he  remember,  the  kinsman  of  Ecglaf 

Strong  aijd  stout-hearted,  what  he  earlier  stammered 

When  with  wine  drunken ;  as  now  his  weapon  he  loaned 

To  a  better  sword-master.     He  himself  durst  not 

Under  the  waves'  turmoil  adventure  his  life. 

Heroic  deeds  do ;  there  he  resigned  glory. 

Fame  and  renown.     Not  so  with  the  other  was  it 

After  he  for  the  fighting  stood  girded  and  ready. 


11. 

Beowulf's  struggle  with  the  mere-wife. 

Beowulf  spake,  son  of  Ecgtheow :  ' 

"  Bethink  thyself  now,  great  kinsman  of  Healfdene, 
Keen-witted  folk-lord,  now  that  I  am  for  the  enterprise  ready. 
Gold- friend  of  men,  of  what  we  formerly  spake,  — 
If  I,  at  thy  call,  ever  should  perish 
That  thou  would 'st  be  to  me  always  a  parent ; 

7 


98  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

Stand  for  the  departed  in  place  of  a  father,  — 
Be  thou  protector  to  these  trusty  comrades, 
Guard  my  faithful  companions  if  the  battle  shall  claim  me. 
Thus,  too,  with  the  treasure  which  thou  once  gavest  me, 
That  send  to  Hygelac,  Hrothgar  beloved. 
May  the  lord  of  the  Geats  then  in  that  gold  divine, 
Hrethel's  son  see,  when  he  stares  on  that  treasure, 
That  I  found  a  friend  lordly  and  bountiful, 
A  giver  of  rings,  whom  I  enjoyed  while  I  might. 
And  do  thou,  Hunferth,  let  him  have  the  heir-loom : 
The  bright  battle-sword  let  the  far-famed  possess ; 
Let  him  have  the  hard-edge.     I  will  with  Hrunting 
Work  out  my  doom,  or  death  may  claim  me." 
After  these  words,  the  prince  of  the  Geat  people 
Hasted  heroically ;  no  answer 
Would  he  abide ;  the  sea-wave  received  him, 
Warrior  heroic.     Then  was  a  day's  space 
E'er  he  of  sea-bottom  sign  could  discover. 
Soon  she  who  was  queen  of  the  realm  'neath  the  waters, 
She  who  in  hate  for  fifty  years  ruled  there, 
*s~     She,  grim  and  greedy,  now  marked  it  that  there 
The  monsters'  domain  some  man  had  invaded. 
She  cast  herself  on  him,  the  warrior  she  grappled 
With  terrible  claws ;  yet  not  thus  the  sooner  did  harm 
Reach  his  body  hale  ;  the  burnie  protected  him. 
That  she  might  not  the  coat-of-mail  penetrate. 
The  inter-locked  link- shirt,  with  loathsome  fingers. 
Then  the  sea-wolf  bore  him  when  she  to  bottom  came, 
The  ring-prince,  to  her  dwelling, 
So  that  he  might  not  howsoe'er  bold  he  was 
Wield  any  weapon,  while  many  a  monster 
Worried  him  in  the  water,  many  a  sea- beast 
With  angry  tusks  tore  his  corselet, 
Followed  close  on  the  hero.     Then  the  earl  saw 
That  he  was  in  some  sea- hall  —  of  what  sort  he  knew  not  - 
Where  no  water  could  harm  him ; 


BEOWULF.  99 

Nor  for  the  roof-hall  might  the  flood  seize  him 

In  grip  unawares.     Fire-light  he  saw, 

A  bright  beacon,  brilliantly  shining. 

Beheld  then  the  brave  one  the  she-wolf  of  the  bottom, 

The  mighty  sea- wife ;  then  gave  he  a  stroke  of  might 

With  his  battle-bill ;  hand-swing  he  spared  not : 

So  that  'bout  her  head  the  polished  blade  sang 

A  battle-song  greedy.     Then  the  guest  found 

That  the  battle  brand  would  not  bite  well 

Life  to  destroy,  for  the  edge  failed 

The  prince  at  his  need.     It  endured  formerly 

Many  a  hand-meeting ;  helmet  often  had  cloven, 

Corselet  of  doomed  one  :  this  was  the  first  time 

That  power  had  failed  to  this  costly  treasure. 

Once  more  was  he  resolute,  lacked  not  in  courage ; 

Was  mindful  of  fame,  Hygelac's  kinsman. 

He  cast  down  the  etched  blade  with  jewels  adorned, 

The  warrior,  in  anger,  that  it  lay  on  the  earth. 

Strong  and  steel-edged ;  in  strength  now  he  trusted, 

In  the  hand-grip  of  might.     So  shall  a  man  do 

When  he  thinketh  in  battle  to  gain 

Long  lasting  fame,  nor  for  his  hfe  careth.  — 

Caught  her  then  by  the  shoulder  (she  did  not  long  for  the  combat), 

The  prince  of  the  Geats  seized  Grendel's  mother. 

Hurled  her,  bold  in  battle  (he  was  bitterly  wrathful), 

His  mortal  foe,  that  she  to  the  floor  fell. 

She  him  then  quickly  repaid  for  that  gift-loan 

With  her  grim  claws,  and  caught  again  at  him. 

Stumbled  then,  when  he  was  weary,  the  stoutest  of  warriors, 

The  fighter-on-foot,  that  he  met  with  a  fall. 

She  dropped  on  her  hall-guest,  drew  forth  her  dagger 

Broad  and  brown- edged,  for  her  son  would  wreak  vengeance, 

Her  only  ofl*spring.     On  Beowulf  s  shoulder  lay 

The  breast-net  well  braided ;  that  saved  his  body, 

'Gainst  point  and  'gainst  edge  entrance  forbad. 

Then  had  he  departed,  the  son  of  Ecgtheow, 


lOO  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

Under  the  sea-bottom,  the  Geats*  champion, 
Had  not  his  battle-sark  stood  him  in  stead, 
The  hard  coat- of- mail,  and  had  not  God  the  holy 
Over-ruled  victory,  the  Lord,  the  all-knowing; 
The  Ruler  of  Heaven  settled  it  righteously. 
Easily  after  that  Beowulf  rose  again. 


in. 

Beowulf's  victory. 

'ss8     There  was  to  be  seen  in  midst  of  the  war-gear  a  battle-brand 

glorious : 
Old  sword  of  the  giants,  strong-edged  and  trusty ; 
Famed  'mong  the  warriors,  choicest  of  weapons. 
But  greater  was  it  than  any  man  other 
Forth  to  the  battle-play  was  able  to  carry,  — 
A  good  sword  and  splendid,  this  work  of  the  giants. 
Beowulf  grasped  then  the  ring-hilt,  wolf  of  the  Scyldings. 
Raging  and  grim  in  mood  he  brandished  the  war- blade. 
Hopeless  of  life,  fiercely  he  smote 
So  that  on  her  neck  the  sword  firmly  grappled, 
Broke  through  the  bone-rings ;  burst  the  brand 
Through   her  body  fated  to  slaughter.      She  on  the   floor 

cringed. 
Blade  was  all  bloody  ;   the  hero  exulted  in  victory. 
The  falchion  flashed  brightly ;  light  lingered  in  it, 
Just  as  from  heaven  ever  shines  clearly 
The  firmament's  candle.     Round  the  hall  glanced  he, 
Turned  by  the  wall;  his  weapon  he  grasped 
Hard  by  the  hilt,  the  strong  thane  of  Hygelac, 
Wrathful  and  resolute.     Its  edge  was  not  useless 
Now  to  the  battle-prince,  but  he  would  swiftly 
Grendel  repay  much  of  the  war- shame 
Erstwhile  wrought  on  the  folk  of  the  West  Danes, 
Oftener  than  once  many  times  over, 


BEOWULF.  .         lOI 

When  he  the  hearth-sharers  of  hoary  King  Hrothgai* 

Slew  in  their  slumber,  sleeping  devoured  them, 

Of  the  Dane  folk  full  fifteen  men 

And  another  §uch  bore  away  with  him, 

A  pitiful  prey.     He  paid  that  loan  now, 

This  bold  warrior,  as  he  saw  in  his  rest 

Weary  of  war,  Grendel  lying  lifeless. 

Deprived  of  earth-joy,  just  as  disaster  overtook  him, 

The  battle  at  Heorot.     His  body  sprang  far 

When  he  after  death  the  blow  received. 

The  battle-stroke  sturdy  that  struck  off  his  head. 

Soon  that  was  seen ;  the  cunning  churls  saw. 

They  who  with  Hrothgar  on  the  strand  tarried, 

Saw  that  the  sea-surge  was  all  commingled. 

The  flood  stained  with  blood.     The  fair-haired 

Eiders  concerning  the  bold  one  spake  softly  together 

How  they  of  the  princeling  never  expected 

That  he  victorious  would  come  again  seeking 

Their  great  leader,  since  to  so  many  it  seemed 

That  the  sea-wolf  had  doubtless  destroyed  him.  *** 

Then  came  the  noon-tide ;  forsook  now  the  sea-cliff 

All  the  brave  Scyldings ;  betook  himself  homeward 

The  gold-friend  of  men.     Moody  and  heart-sick 

The  strangers  still  sat  there,  and  stared  on  the  sea. 

They  wist  well  the  danger,  weened  not  that  their  lord 

Again  they  should  see.     The  sword  then  began 

Because  of  the  battle-gore  —  clots  of  blood  blurred  it  — 

The  war-blade,  to  vanish ;  that  was  a  wonder 

That  it  all  melted  most  like  to  ice 

When  the  frost's  fetters  the  father  unlooses. 

Unwinds  the  ice- ropes,  he  who  power  wieldeth 

On  times  and  tides ;  that  is  true  Creator. 

Naught  else  took  from  that  abode  the  prince  of  the  Geats, 

More  of  rich  treasures  though  he  many  beheld  there. 

Naught  save  Grendel's  head  and  the  sword-hilt  together, 

Bright  with  gems  ;  the  blade  had  all  burned, 


I02        •  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

The  graved  metal  had  melted,  so  hot  was  the  blood 
Of  the  strange  spirit  venomous,  he  who  had  perished. 
Soon  in  the  sea  was  he  who  had  the  strife  bided, 
War-onset  of  wroth  ones,  through  the  water  dove  upward. 
The  surge  of  the  sea-waves  all  was  now  purified 
All  these  wide  spaces,  when  the  weird  spirit 
Turned  his  back  upon  life- days,  this  fleeting  creation. 
Came  then  to  shore  the  leader  of  sailors, 
Stout-minded,  swimming,  joying  in  sea-booty, 
The  mighty  burden  borne  by  him. 

They  leaped  then  down  towards  him,  thanked  the  Creator, 
The  brave  band  of  war- thanes  rejoiced  in  their  leader 
Because  that  safe  and  sound  again  they  beheld  him. 
Then  was  from  the  hero  helmet  and  corselet 
Quickly  unloosened.     The  lake  became  putrid, 
Water  under  the  welkin  with  slaughter-gore  fouling.    , 
Then  fared  they  homeward  forth  by  the  foot-paths 
Heartily  happy.     The  earth-ways  they  measured, 
Highways  familiar.     Picked  men  and  bold 
Bore  from  the  sea-cliff  the  head  of  the  demon. 
No  easy  burden  to  any  one  of  them. 
Of  the  very  courageous  four  were  commanded 
On  the  spear- shaft  to  laboriously  bear 
To  the  gold-hall  Grendel's  head, 
Until  that  together  to  hall  came  a-going 
Fourteen  of  the  Geat-men,  famous  fighters ; 
1643     Mighty  among  them,  Beowulf  marched  o'er  the  meadows. 


KING  HORN.  103 


II.     KING  HORN. 

[A  metrical  romance  belonging  to  the  thirteenth  century.  Several  bal- 
lads of  "  King  Horn,"  or  "  Hynde  Horn,"  are  included  in  the  collection  of 
English  and  Scottish  Ballads,  edited  by  Professor  Francis  J.  Child  of  Harvard 
University.  The  following  selection  is  a  rendering  based  upon  the  text 
edited  by  Theodor  Wissmann,  published  in  the  forty-fifth  number  of 
*'Quellen  und  Forschungen,"  Triibner,  Strassburg  and  London,  1881.] 

HOW  HORN  AND  HIS  COMRADES  WERE  SAVED  FROM  THE  PAGANS,  AND 
HOW  HORN  WAS  LOVED  OF  MAIDEN  RYMENHILD. 

The  youths  met  with  Ailmar,  king ;  'S9 

Christ  give  him  his  own  blessing  1 
King  he  was  of  Westerness ; 
Christ  give  him  his  own  bliss  ! 

He  spake  soft  to  Horn  child 

Words  that  were  right  mild : 

"  Fair  youths,  where  were  ye  reared, 

That  hither  to  land  have  steered? 

Lo  !  here  be  ye  thirteen, 

Of  body  fair  and  bold,  I  ween. 

"  By  God  that  made  me, 

Such  a  fair  comradrie 

Saw  I  never  stand 

In  our  western  land  ! 

What  ye  seek  I  pray  thee  tell." 

Horn  spake  for  them  all  right  well. 

He  spake  for  them  all. 

For  so  it  must  of  right  befall. 

He  was  of  all  fairest 

And  in  wit  he  was  the  best. 


104  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

«  We  be  from  the  South  Danes*  place, 

And  come  of  a  goodly  race ; 

Of  Christian  blood, 

And  kings  noble  and  good. 

"  Pagans  there  'gan  to  arrive 
And  left  there  none  alive. 
They  smote  and  they  slew 
Of  Christian  men  not  a  few. 

"  So  now  may  Christ  me  rede ; 
Us  then  they  did  lead 
Down  to  a  little  boat 
And  on  the  sea  set  us  afloat. 

"  A  day  is  gone  and  yet  another ; 
Without  a  sail,  without  a  rudder 
Our  ship  began  to  swim 
Straight  forth  to  this  land's  rim. 

*'  Now  thou  mayst  us  slay,  or  bind 
Our  hands  fast  behind ; 
But,  and  if  it  be  thy  will. 
Help  that  we  fare  not  ill." 

Then  spake  the  good  king  — 
I  wis  in  sooth  he  was  no  carling :  — 
"  Child  thy  name  thou  shalt  me  tell ; 
Naught  shall  tide  thee  here  but  well." 

So  soon  as  ever  he  heard 

Horn  child  spake  this  blithe  word : 

"  Horn  am  I  hote. 

Come  up  out  of  boat 

From  the  sea  side. 

King,  well  thee  betide  ! " 


KING  horn; 

"  Horn  child,"  quoth  the  king, 
"  Well  deserv'st  thou  thy  naming  ! 
Horn  goeth  clear  and  shrill 
By  dale  and  by  hill ; 
Horn  soundeth  loud  and  clear 
Over  dale  and  over  mere. 

"  So  shall  thy  name  spring 
From  king  to  king. 
And  thy  fairness 
Throughout  Westerness ; 

"  The  strength  of  thy  hand 
Into  every  land. 
Horn  thou  hast  won  my  heart, 
Ne'er  shalt  thou  from  me  depart." 

In  the  court  and  out 
And  elsewhere  all  about 
Loved  men  Horn  child  ; 
And  most  of  all  did  Rymenhild. 

The  own  daughter  of  the  king, 
She  'gan  to  pine  with  oft  sighing. 
She  so  loved  Horn  child, 
That  nigh  she  'gan  wax  wild. 

For  she  might  not  at  board 
Never  with  him  speak  one  word, 
Nor  yet  in  the  hall 
Among  the  young  knights  all. 

She  sent  secret  word 
To  Athelbrus,  her  stewdrd 
That  he  Horn  should  bring, 
To  her  bower  for  her  playing. 


los 


I06  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

373  Athelbrus  went  on  his  way, 

Found  Horn  in  hall  that  day 
Before  the  king  at  board, 
Wine  to  pour  for  his  lord. 

"  Horn,"  quoth  he,  **to  me  attend; 
To  bower  now  shalt  thou  wend 
After  meal  tide 
With  Rymenhild  to  bide. 

*'  Words  like  these  in  sooth  are  bold, 
In  thy  heart  must  thou  them  hold : 
Horn  be  now  to  me  true, 
Never  shall  it  cause  thee  rue." 

Horn  in  heart  laid 
All  that  he  him  said. 
He  went  then  aright 
To  Rymenhild  the  bright. 

On  his  knees  Horn  fell, 
Rymenhild  he  greeted  well. 
He  spake  fair  speech 
Nor  was  there  need  him  to  teach. 

"  King's  steward  our 

Sent  me  to  thy  bower ; 

With  thee  speak  I  should. 

Tell  me  what  thou  would. 

Say  and  I  shall  hear ; 

Make  thy  will  to  me  more  clear." 

Rymenhild  up  *gan  stand 
And  took  Horn  by  the  hand. 
By  her  side  she  made  Horn  place, 
Right  lovingly  did  him  embrace ; 


KING  HORN,  107 

A  cup  of  wine  for  him  did  fill, 
And  oft  she  kissed  him  at  her  will. 

"Welcome  Horn,"  she  said, 

"  How  fair  hath  Christ  thee  made  ! 

At  even  and  a'  morrow 

For  thee  have  I  such  sorrow : 

Rest  have  I  never  none ; 

Sleep  hath  from  me  gone. 

Listen  now  to  this  my  sorrow 

Or  I  live  not  till  the  morrow. 

"  Thou  shalt  without  strife 
Have  me  to  thy  wife. 
Horn,  have  pity  on  my  pain ; 
Plight  me  thy  troth  again." 

Horn  there  himself  bethought 
What  then  to  say  he  ought. 
"Christ,"  quoth  he,  "thee  bless 
And  give  thee  heaven's  bliss 
In  thy  husband 
Where'er  he  be  in  land  ! 

"  I  am  of  birth  too  low 
Such  women  to  know. 
I  am  come  of  thrall 
And  a  foundling  am  withall. 
It  were  no  fair  wedding 
Betwixt  a  thrall  and  a  king." 

Then  'gan  Rymenhild  to  moan : 
Adown  she  fell  in  a  swoon. 
Horn's  heart  was  then  full  wo ; 
Took  her  in  his  arms  two, 
'Gan  her  for  to  kiss 
Right  oft  as  I  wis. 


I08  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

"  Leman,"  he  said,  "  dear, 
Let  thy  heart  now  take  cheer. 
Help  me  become  knight 
With  all  thy  might, 
To  my  lord  the  king 
That  he  give  me  dubbing. 

"  Then  is  my  thrallhood 
I  Humed  into  knighthood ; 
And  I  shall  wax  more 
And  do,  leman,  all  thy  lore." 

Rymenhild,  that  sweet  thing, 
Wakened  then  from  her  swooning : 
"  Horn,"  quoth  she,  "  right  soon 
That  shall  be  all  done. 
Thou  shalt  be  dubbed  knight 
^  Ere  be  gone  a  sennight." 


ARCADIA, 


109 


III.   ARCADIA. 

[From  "  The  Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia,"  begun  by  its  author,  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  in  1580,  and  first  published  after  his  death,  in  1590.] 

This  country  Arcadia,  among  all  the  provinces  of  Greece, 
hath  ever  been  had  in  singular  reputation,  partly  for  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  air,  and  other  natural  benefits,  but  principally  for  the 
well-tempered  minds  of  the  people,  who,  finding  that  the  shining 
title  of  glory,  so  much  affected  by  other  nations,  doth  indeed 
help  little  to  the  happiness  of  life,  are  the  only  people  which,  as 
by  their  justice  and  providence  give  neither  cause  nor  hope  to 
their  neighbors  to  annoy  them ;  so  are  they  not  stirred  with  false 
praise  to  trouble  others'  quiet,  thinking  it  a  small  reward  for  the 
wasting  of  their  own  lives  in  ravening  that  their  posterity  should 
long  after  say  they  had  done  so.  Even  the  Muses  seem  to  ap- 
prove their  good  determination  by  choosing  this  country  for  their 
chief  repairing-place,  and  by  bestowing  their  perfections  so  largely 
here,  that  the  very  shepherds  have  their  fancies  lifted  to  so  high 
conceits  as  the  learned  of  other  nations  are  content  both  to  bor- 
row their  names  and  imitate  their  cunning. 


no  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 


IV.  THE   DELECTABLE   HISTORIE   OF   FORBONIUS 
AND    PRISCERIA. 

["  The  Delectable  Historie  of  Forbonius  and  Prisceria"  (1584)  is  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  the  average  romance  of  the  Elizabethan  age.  In  inge- 
nuity of  plot,  and  the  poetry  of  its  sentiment,  it  is  surpassed  by  some ;  but 
the  uncouthness  and  artificiality  which  characterize  it  are  the  common  attri- 
butes of  the  sixteenth-century  romance,  and  the  *'  Forbonius  and  Prisceria  '* 
may  be  taken  as  fairly  representative  of  its  kind.  Lodgers  "  Rosalynde,"  to 
which  reference  has  been  made  already  (page  29),  is  a  much  prettier  and 
more  elaborate  work;  but  its  greater  length,  and  the  fact  that  it  is  easily 
accessible  in  cheap  and  convenient  form,  led  to  the  selection  for  insertion 
here  of  the  "  Historie,"  which  is  given  entire,  except  that  the  eclogue  of 
Arvalio  is  omitted  as  unnecessary.  The  "  Forbonius  and  Prisceria "  has 
been  edited  for  the  Shakespeare  Society,  by  David  Laing,  London,  1853  ;  the 
"  Rosalynde"  is  included  in  various  editions  of  "  As  You  Like  It,"  and  has 
been  edited  by  Henry  Morley,  in  Cassell's  National  Library  (10  cents) ;  the 
Complete  Works  of  Thomas  Lodge  are  edited,  in  three  volumes,  for  the 
Hunterian  Club,  by  Edmund  Gosse,  Glasgow,  1883.] 

In  Memphis  (the  chiefest  city  of  ^gypt)  a  place  most -re- 
nowned by  reason  of  the  opulency  of  the  princes  that  have  gov- 
erned that  monarchy :  at  such  time  as  Sisimithres  was  head  priest 
of  the  same  and  Hydarpes  governor  of  the  province,  a  noble 
gentleman  called  Forbonius  (highly  accounted  of  for  his  unre- 
provable  prowess,  and  among  the  best  sort  allowed  of  for  his 
unspeakable  virtues)  made  his  abode,  whose  tender  years  not 
yet  subject  to  the  experience  of  more  riper  judgment  (as  the 
winding  ivy  about  the  stately  oak)  entangled  itself  with  many 
amorous  objects,  now  allowing  this  choice,  now  approving  that 
person,  straight  admitting  a  third.  But  the  fates  having  regis- 
tered his  last  opinion  in  everlasting  and  permanent  destiny,  made 
his  manifold  aspects  (as  yet  not  staid)  to  light  upon  one  seemly 
impression,  and  to  allow  of  but  one  only  paragon  :  yet  so  sealed 
they  his  opinion,  as  (if  it  be  true  that  the  gods  ever  were  las- 
civious) I  think  the  chiefest  commander  of  the  heavens  might 


FORBONIUS  AND  PRISCERIA.  Ill 

vouchsafe  of  such  dalliance,  and  be  only  amorous  in  this  that 
knowing  heavenly  perfections  to  be  resident  in  earthly  substance, 
he  would  either  borrow  fire  of  Venus  to  make  the  creature  pliable, 
or  carry  fire  into  the  heavens  from  whence  Prometheus  first 
did  steal  lightning.  Favorable  was  the  climate,  that  allowing 
universally  to  all  the  creatures  it  compassed  only,  blackness, 
vouchsafed  Prisceria  (Forbonius'  mistress)  such  sweet  savor, 
who  borne  of  noble  parents  within  the  city,  (as  of  Soldyvius, 
viceroy  of  the  province  adjoining  to  the  city,  and  Valdyvia, 
daughter  and  heir  of  Theagines  of  Greece,  the  copartner  of  sor- 
row with  Carriclela,  the  strange  born  child  of  the  Egyptian 
king:)  not  only  matched  all  titles  of  honor  with  exquisiteness 
of  proportion,  but  also  so  coupled  the  perfections  of  the  mind, 
with  the  proportion  of  the  body,  as  rather  nature  might  disdain 
her  industry,  not  art  repent  her  of  the  dowery  she  had  granted 
her:  this  sweet  fixt  comet  coasted  Forbonius*  affections,  who 
like  the  careful  mariner,  having  (amidst  the  frosty  night)  sought 
for  his  lodestar,  and  at  break  of  morning  (his  eyes  almost  dazzled 
with  looking)  found  it  out :  so  our  noble  young  gentleman, 
having  passed  over  many  personages  with  a  slight  over-look,  at 
last  finding  out  his  mistress  allotted  him  by  fate,  yielded  willingly 
unto  importunity  of  the  destinies,  and  won  altogether  to  be  sub- 
ject, being  captived  with  fancy,  he  applied  himself  wholly  to  the 
accomplishment  of  his  desires,  and  the  attainment  of  his  mis- 
tress' favor :  and  for  that  the  Goddess  of  love  is  plyable  to  all 
benignity,  as  not  suffering  a  true  servitor  to  be  long  unrewarded : 
it  so  fortuned,  that  she  prosperously  furthered  our  noble  Egyptian 
in  his  purpose,  preferring  him  by  opportunity  to  the  sight  of  his 
desired  pleasures  :  for  the  propinquity  of  their  abode  was  such,  as 
that  Prisceria's  chamber  window  had  a  prospect  into  Forbonius* 
garden,  by  which  means,  the  gentleman  in  his  meditations  might 
behold  his  mistress,  and  Prisceria  (being  by  the  equity  of  the 
destinies  prefigurated  to  strange  misfortune)  might  have  occasion 
to  look,  and  seeing,  might  love :  but  as  this  conveniency  was 
favorable  one  way,  so  was  the  froward  disposition  of  the  parents 
untoward  on  the  other  part  for  Soldyvius,  whether  led  thereto  by 


1 12  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FACTION, 

appointment,  or  driven  to  the  exigent,  by  some  former  malice 
borne  by  the  progenitors  of  Forbonius :  had  neither  a  Hking  to 
the  youth,  nor  a  longing  to  have  his  daughter  married :  either 
led  by  covetousness,  for  that  he  would  not  stress  his  coffers,  or 
by  envy,  for  that  he  contemned  Forbonius :  yet  what  is  con- 
cluded secretly  amidst  the  heavens  cannot  be  circumvented  with 
man's  circumspection :  for  Forbonius  as  one  which  depended 
only  on  the  favor  of  Prisceria,  thought  fortune  had  bereft  him  of 
occasion  to  enjoy  yet  would  not  he  be  severed  from  the  benefit 
to  behold  her  whom  he  loved  :  who  warmed  with  the  same  fire,  in 
increasing  his  flame,  kindled  her  own  fancy,  and  being  as  willing 
as  the  other  to  procure  remedy  to  her  passion,  with  many  change 
of  colors  and  sundry  sweet  aspects,  opened  that  to  her  servant, 
which  he  wished  for  in  his  mistress :  who  (with  like  sorrows  re- 
quiting every  circumstance)  as  one  willing  and  born  to  attempt : 
at  such  time  as  Prisceria  solitarily  solaced  herself  at  her  window : 
in  mournful  melody  (making  his  lute  tunable  to  the  strain  of  his 
voice)  he  recorded  this  sonnet. 

The  turtle  pleased  with  his  she  compeer, 
With  sweet  aspects,  and  many  a  turning  lure, 
Describes  the  zeal  in  terms  should  well  appear, 
If  nature  were  so  gracious  to  assure 
The  silly  bird  with  speech  as  well  as  I : 
Who  stopt  of  speech  by  turns  my  woes  discry. 
And  though  perhaps  my  terms  by  distance  be, 
Seajoined  from  thee  :  I  wis  my  mournful  mone, 
Doth  pierce  thine  ears,  and  echo  tells  for  me, 
In  sour  reports  :  would  she  and  I  were  one. 
For  whom  I  live,  and  whom  I  only  love, 
Whose  sweet  aspects  my  dying  fancies  move. 

And  if  the  air  by  yielding  calm  consent, 
Make  sweet  Prisceria  privy  to  my  suit. 
Vouchsafe  dear  sweet  that  beauty  may  relent. 
And  grant  him  grace,  whom  distance  maketh  mute : 
So  either  hope  shall  make  me  climb  the  sky. 
Or  rude  repulse  enforce  my  fancies  fly. 


i  FORBONIUS  AND  PRISCERIA.  II3 

Prisceria  not  altogether  privy  to  the  report,  yet  concluding  all 
purposes  to  her  own  fantasy,  conceiving  by  his  manifold  sighs, 
aspects  and  motions,  where-unto  he  applied  his  actions,  with  a 
solemn  sigh,  as  wishing  him  present,  and  a  seemly  bent,  as  re- 
quiting his  courtesy,  betook  herself  to  her  pillow,  where  com- 
paring every  accident  together,  both  of  the  zeal  she  bare  to 
Forbonius,  and  of  the  proffer  he  proffered  to  her,  she  brake  out 
into  these  speeches. 

Alas  (unhappy  Prisceria)  what  untoward  destiny  hath  befallen 
thee  ?  That  in  thy  flowering  years  and  prime  of  beauty,  thou  art 
become  a  thrall  to  uncertain  pleasure,  neither  knowing  from 
whence  the  error  first  sprung,  nor  by  what  treacles  it  may  at  last 
be  expelled.  If  it  be  that  nature  envying  my  perfections  hath 
allotted  me  this  purgatory,  that  having  at  free  beck  all  the  bene- 
fits of  fortune,  yet  I  should  with  inward  bonds  be  enchained  with 
the  holdfast  of  fancy.  Alas  that  in  prefixing  the  torment,  she 
hath  not  proffered  a  remedy,  or  in  bestowing  an  ulcer,  hath  not 
vouchsafed  a  corrosive.  How  strangely  am  I  martyred,  silly  maid 
'that  I  am?  That  by  one  only  look  have  conceived  such  an  im- 
pression, as  neither  art  can  alter  with  medicine,  nor  time  eat  out 
with  continuance. 

Wo  is  me  that  I  love,  yet  fortunate  am  I  that  I  hate  not,  for  by 
the  one  I  am  deprived  of  liberty,  by  the  other  I  shall  overpass 
the  sorrow  by  sureness.  Yet  are  my  thoughts  more  favorable  to 
thee  Prisceria,  than  the  success  in  thy  love  will  be  fortunate. 
Thou  lovest  Forbonius,  and  why  ?  for  his  virtue  :  yet  thy  father 
hateth  him  upon  old  grudges,  with  whom  when  rancor  prevaileth, 
what  may  be  more  looked  for,  than  contempt  and  denial?  But 
Forbonius  seeketh  Prisceria's  favor  not  Soldyvius'  friendship  : 
but  Prisceria  cannot  enjoy,  Forbonius  without  Soldyvius*  favor. 
But  Forbonius  will  by  happy  marriage  conclude  all  malice,  but  thy 
father  having  an  envious  mind,  will  have  a  suspicious  ear.  Alas 
why  imagine  I  wonders  in  my  fancy,  hoping  that  those  destinies 
(which  enthralled  my  affection)  will  subject  my  father's  resolu- 
tions :  since  neither  reason  alloweth  me  any  probability  to  work 
upon,  neither  hath  Forbonius  any  motion  as  1  see  to  compass 

8 


il4  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION,  * 

ought :  well,  to  the  satisfaction  of  my  friend,  and  to  the  content- 
ment of  my  sorrowing  heart :  my  friend  shall  know  my  zeal,  and 
I  will  continue  my  affection,  which  being  begun  with  so  wonder- 
ful causes,  must  needs  finish  with  a  miraculous  effect. 

With  these  conclusions  she  fell  asleep,  leaving  me  to  return 
to  Forbonius,  who  being  tormented  with  the  same  fury,  and 
troubled  with  equal  fancy,  seeing  his  light  to  be  eclipsed,  I  mean 
his  mistress  vanished,  began  heavily  to  complain  himself  in  these 
or  such-like  terms. 

Alas  you  destinies,  whose  courses  are  inevitable  :  how  fortuneth 
it,  that  in  bestowing  casualties  in  man's  life,  you  prescribe  not 
means  to  prevent  misfortunes?  and  only  beginning  to  fester  the 
heart,  prefix  no  precedents,  whereby  the  humors  may  be  expelled. 
If  all  things  are  to  be  referred  unto  an  end,  what  may  I  well 
imagine  of  my  estate  ?  Who  intercepted  by  all  occasions,  must 
either  finish  my  misfortunes  miserably,  or  desperately.  O  love, 
justly  mayest  thou  be  counted  licentious,  whereas  thou  neither 
prescribest  limit  to  thyself,  to  enthrall :  nor  means  to  thy  subjects 
to  attain  hberty.  But  why  exclaim  I  on  him,  that  hath  blest  me 
with  a  benefit?  as  though  the  fate  that  made  Forbonius  happy  in 
loving,  cannot  establish  his  success,  as  that  it  shall  not  be  meas- 
ured by  misfortune.  I  glory  in  the  benefit  of  my  martyrdom, 
since  a  certain  inward  hope  assureth  me,  that  divine  beauty  can- 
not be  sequestered  from  just  pity,  nor  a  tried  service  in  love, 
requited  with  a  disdainful  hate.  But  foolish  man  that  I  am, 
how  may  it  be,  that  in  seeking  beauty,  I  labor  not  to  attain  it  ?  and 
desiring  to  enjoy  a  benefit,  I  attempt  not  to  make  trial  of  my  mis- 
tress' bounty?  Why,  by  last  night's  beck  she  vouchsafed  some 
show  of  acceptance  :  and  that  may  as  well  be  of  reproof  as  lik- 
ing. (O  Forbonius,)  it  is  a  silly  hope  that  is  conceived  by 
signs,  either  attempt  further,  or  persuade  thyself  of  no  favor. 
Her  father  (silly  wretch)  envieth  thee,  and  thinkest  thou  to  com- 
pass his  daughter?  Alas,  faint  hope  is  this  when  as  those  that 
should  build  up,  do  destroy :  when  such  as  should  persuade,  do 
dissuade:  when  as  he  that  doth  command  most  earnestly,  doth 
forbid.     But  love  hath  no  respect  of  consanguinity,  but  having 


FORBONIUS  AND  PRISCERIA.  II5 

only  relation  to  him  which  he  favoreth,  delighteth  only  in  the 
possession  of  his  choice,  yet  is  not  Forbonius,  sure  she  loveth : 
well,  I  see  he  that  will  be  fortunate  must  hazard  and  that  man  that 
will  be  gracious  in  his  mistress'  eye,  must  by  outward  attempts 
and  unaccustomed  purposes,  seek  to  confirm  his  happiness. 

Whereupon  (upon  sundry  conclusions)  he  inferred  thus,  that 
the  next  day,  by  certain  rare  attempts,  he  would  either  finish  that 
he  had  so  long  sought  for,  or  perish  in  the  performance  of  his 
enterprise  :  and  the  day  serving  to  attempt  that  which  he  imagined 
by  night,  he  bethought  himself  of  the  Gymnosophists  of  the 
country,  among  whom  remembering  one  of  singular  experience, 
and  notable  learning,  he  resorted  unto  him,  opening  first,  how 
he  was  enthralled  by  fancy,  how  precluded  by  all  occasions, 
especially  by  the  father's  disdain,  next,  how  some  opportunity 
served  him,  lastly  how  the  agony  tormented  him,  desiring  the 
philosopher,  whose  wisdom  could  see  into  all  causes,  to  search 
out  the  fatal  exigent  of  his  love.  Appollonius  (for  so  the  Gym- 
nosophist  was  called)  having  calculated  the  gentleman's  nativity, 
and  seeing  some  planets  retrogate  :  covering  the  asperity  of  the 
destinies,  with  the  hidden  secrecy  of  an  artist,  discoursed  thus. 

O  Forbonius,  if  as  Socrates  did  his  gold,  thou  drown  thy 
affections,  it  would  follow  that  with  him  thou  shouldest  enjoy  free 
liberty  of  thyself,  and  not  suffer  thy  affects  to  rule  thy  reason. 
Art  thou  bewitched  by  Circes  of  a  human  shape  hast  thou  gotten 
a  beastly  form?  of  a  man  born  to  reasonable  actions,  wilt  thou 
not  swallow  an  unreasonable  misfortune  ?  If  many  cares  be  the 
decayers  of  the  mind,  if  many  sorrows  the  consumers  of  the  body, 
better  were  it  by  day  to  study  the  liberal  sciences,  than  at  such 
time  as  we  should  employ  ourselves  to  honorable  attempts,  to  be- 
come unhonorably  licentious.  Alas  Forbonius  considering  what 
a  lover  is,  what  a  lover  suffereth,  what  a  lover  seeketh,  I  find  the 
person  idle  minded,  I  find  his  patience  an  insupportable  sorrow, 
I  find  himself  not  himself,  in  that  he  is  unreasonable.  The  daily 
actions  of  a  lover  are  discommendable,  the  night  exclamations  so 
odious,  as  that  they  are  in  this  covert  nature,  who  shadowing  the 
world  with  darkness,  limiting  each  creature  his  rest,  yet  they  even 


Il6  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

in  that  time  labor  in  outcries,  in  which  they  should  take  con- 
venient rest.  My  good  friend,  the  greatest  wisdom  is  to  measure 
every  attempt  with  his  casualties,  and  if  aught  happen  that  may 
seem  impossible,  to  cast  off  the  rein  and  suffer  it  to  pass  in  that 
form  it  was  concluded  in.  Thou  lovest  (Forbonius,)  better  were 
it  thou  didst  loath  :  for  by  loathing  thou  canst  but  be  counted  un- 
natural, but  by  loving  thou  mayst  fortune  to  be  unfortunate.  If 
all  things  are  ordered  by  the  higher  powers,  it  is  vain  you  must 
conclude  to  infringe  what  is  concluded  on,  if  the  destinies  have 
appointed ;  that  Forbonius  shall  not  be  happy  in  enjoying  Pris- 
ceria,  Forbonius  is  not  reasoning  in  sueing  for  Prisceria.  Un- 
happy Paris  in  Helen,  though  fortunate  in  enjoying  her  beauty  : 
but  when  love  begins  with  a  fading  benefit,  it  endeth  with  an 
everlasting  sorrow.  The  conclusion  of  a  wise  man  must  be,  to 
yield  to  the  necessity  of  Fate,  and  to  continue  contented  with 
that  which  cannot  be  altered  by  succession.  Tell  me  by  the 
immortal  gods,  my  good  friend  I  beseech  thee,  what  happiness 
conceivest  thou  possible  to  follow,  either  in  enjoying  thy  lady,  or 
finishing  thy  love  ?  Alas,  the  greatest  sweet  is  a  continual  sour, 
and  after  many  unfortunate  repulses  a  sudden  misfortune  makes 
an  end  of  many  a  year's  courting.  I  speak  all  this  to  this  end 
(my  Forbonius)  because  I  would  prevent  that  by  counsel  in  thee, 
which  otherwise  (if  thou  follow  thine  own  lure)  will  be  a  con- 
fusion  to  thyself.  Thou  comest  to  me  for  counsel  to  compass 
love,  and  I  would  confirm  thee,  that  thou  shouldest  avoid  the 
occasion  of  following  love.  Thou  wouldest  by  my  means  strain 
art  to  subdue  nature,  yet  I  labor  both  to  direct  by  art,  and  to 
suppress  by  nature.  Truly  (my  good  friend)  looking  but  to  the 
hidden  secrets  of  nature,  I  find  thee  subject  to  many  misfortunes, 
and  no  way  to  be  remedied  but  by  one  only  virtue.  Thou  shalt 
(after  long  toils)  compass  that  thou  hopest  for,  yet  when  thy 
greatest  pleasures  begin  to  take  the  original :  even  then  shall 
they  find  their  exigent.  Since  therefore  the  revolutions  of  the 
heavens  conclude,  that  by  only  continent  forbearance,  thou  shalt 
be  disburdened  of  many  misfortunes,  I  beseech  thee  let  this 
transitory  pleasure  be  accounted  of  as  it  is,  and  finish  up  thy 


FORBONIUS  AND  PRISCERIA, 


117 


love  with  my  counsel :  so  shalt  thou  be  fortunate  in  preventing 
destiny,  and  continue  in  happiness,  where  too  much  love  may 
make  thee  unlucky. 

Forbonius  led  by  the  inconstant  opinion  of  his  young  years, 
not  weighing  the  grave  and  fatherly  counsel  of  AppoUonius, 
answered  him  thus. 

O  Father,  when  the  wound  is  given,  it  is  ill  counselling  how  to 
avoid  the  strife,  and  when  the  heart  is  captivated,  there  can  be 
but  small  recovery  by  counsel ;  how  were  it  possible  for  me  to 
restrain  that  in  myself,  which  the  gods  could  not  limit  in  their 
deities  ?  easy  it  is ,  for  the  whole  physician  to  counsel  the  sick 
patient,  but  when  the  extremity  wringeth  excessively,  none  bideth 
the  martyrdom  but  the  afflicted.  O  AppoUonius,  my  mind 
measureth  not  the  iniquity  of  fate,  neither  do  I  seek  limits  for 
that,  which  by  no  direction  can  be  exterminated  from  out  my 
heart  so  that  good  father  rather  respect  my  present  suit,  than 
my  future  discommodity,  and  by  your  counsel  make  end  to  my 
sorrows  :  whereby  it  will  thus  come  to  pass,  that  enjoying  the 
pleasure  I  long  wish  for,  I  may  more  boldly  bear  the  assault  of 
fro  ward  fortune  when  it  cometh.  If  it  be  only  death,  that  my 
enemy  fate  threateneth  me  with,  let  me  enjoy  this  benefit,  as  for 
Fortune,  I  will  friend  to  her  enemy,  the  which  is  the  grave,  and 
acquainting  my  soul  but  with  the  only  idea  of  my  mistress,  think 
myself  as  happy,  as  they  that  have  walked  by  Elysian  fields  a  long 
space  to  their  content. 

AppoUonius  willing  to  do  him  good,  yet  sorry  that  he  could  not 
prevail  with  his  counsel,  at  length  began  thus. 

Since  my  Forbonius,  thou  wilt  be  ruled  by  no  counsel,  thou 
must  be  partaker  of  thine  own  sorrow.  As  for  thy  request,  I  will 
so  satisfy  thee,  as  not  only  thou  shalt  at  thy  pleasure  conceive  thy 
mistress*  mind,  but  also  open  unto  her  the  secrets  of  thy  heart, 
by  which  means  thou  shalt  herein  have  accomplishment  of  thy 
wish,  though  in  so  doing  thou  show  but  little  wisdom.  Where- 
upon, resorting  to  his  study,  he  brought  forth  a  mirror  of  notable 
operation,  a  practicke  in  prospective,  which  delivering  to  For- 
bonius, he  commended  it  thus. 


Il8  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

O  my  friend,  I  deliver  thee  that  here  to  feed  thy  humor,  which 
was  composed  to  comprehend  art.  In  this  mirror  thou  mayest 
after  thou  hast  written  thy  mind :  taking  the  sun-beam,  send  the 
reflection  to  thy  mistress'  eye,  whereby  she  may  as  legibly  read 
thy  letters,  as  if  they  were  in  her  hands,  and  by  thy  instructions 
made  privy  to  the  secrets  of  thy  glass,  return  thine  answer  in  that 
very  form  in  which  thou  sendest.  For  the  rest,  I  leave  it  to  your 
discretions,  and  good  fortune,  wishing  all  things  to  fall  out  as 
prosperously  in  your  love  as  you  would,  and  as  I  wish. 

Our  noble  youth  (in  amours)  having  furnished  himself  of  that 
he  sought  for,  repaired  unto  his  study  where  devising  in  what 
terms  he  might  solicit  his  mistress,  at  last  he  cyphered  out  his 
sorrows  in  this  sequel. 

That  fancy  that  hath  made  me  thrall  to  thy  beauty  (sweet 
Prisceria)  commendeth  my  submission  to  thy  good  grace  :  beseech- 
ing thee  to  be  as  favorable  in  ministring  a  remedy,  as  thy  beauty 
was  ready  to  procure  my  thraldom.  I  make  no  resist  in  this  my 
loving  torment,  but  only  yield  myself  subject  to  the  impression. 
May  it  therefore  please  thee  (sweet  Prisceria)  to  be  as  beneficial 
in  this,  as  the  gods  are  in  their  bounty,  who  for  every  faithful 
interatie  ^  return  a  grateful  satisfaction.  And  herein  may  thou 
see  my  faith  to  be  stedfast,  since  art  itself  serveth  opportunities, 
and  ministreth  me  both  a  means  to  open  my  hidden  sorrows,  and 
thee  a  messenger  to  bewray  thy  silent  secrets.  I  beseech  thee 
(by  the  sweet  statues  that  are  builded  for  the  goddess  that  is 
honored  in  Paphos,)  to  be  as  just  in  returning  favor,  as  I  am 
forward  in  bewraying  my  fancy :  so  shalt  thou  have  the  possession 
of  him,  that  is  by  destinies  appointed  thy  assured  beadsman,  and 
I  enjoy  those  pleasures  in  which  I  may  be  only  fortunate.  Till 
then  I  must  write  myself  as  I  am.  The  most  unhappiest  lover  that 
liveth.       .  FoRBONius. 

This  ciphered  out  in  fair  characters,  and  disposed  in  such 
terms  as  his  fancy  then  prefixed  him  he  took  his  way  into  his 
garden,  waiting  some  necessary  opportunity,  to  put  his  proposed 

1  Entreaty. 


FORBONIUS  AND   PRISCERIA.  II9 

attempt  in  practice  and  to  bewray  his  woes  to  Prisceria :  who 
wounded  with  the  remembrance  of  Forbonius*  perfections,  and 
seeing  no  way  but  his  presence  a  mean  to  expel  sorrow,  betook 
herself  to  her  accustomed  prospect,  and  with  longing  looks  she 
leveled  at  his  love,  which  was  already  strucken  with  her  beauty. 

The  gentleman  fitted  by  these  convenient  occasions  began  his 
philosophical  demonstration,  and  taking  his  aspect  as  necessarily 
as  he  might,  he  presented  Prisceria  with  his  pensive  submission  : 
who  confirmed  by  so  convenient  opportunity,  betaking  herself 
with  all  speed  possible  to  her  study,  and  by  a  beck  charging  him 
with  no  less  dispatch  to  give  attendance  :  she  gave  answer  to  his 
amorous  entreaties  with  this  gracious  affability. 

The  climate  Forbonius  whereunder  I  was  born,  (believe  rae) 
either  hath  prefigured  me  the  destiny  to  be  enamored  by  thee, 
or  thee  the  subject  that  should  besot  me  :  and  truly  herein  the 
working  of  the  gods  are  secret,  who  employ  such  thoughts  in  me 
as  now  by  thy  letters  I  find  wrought  in  thee  making  a  unity  in 
both  those  hearts,  who  by  reason  of  parents'  envies,  are  like  to 
find  fatal  conclusions.  And  whereas  by  necessity  of  fate  I  find 
myself  wholly  captivated  to  thy  pleasures,  I  doubt  not  but  that 
God  whom  we  honor  for  his  brightness,  and  who  by  his  lightning 
ministreth  to  our  misfortunes,  will  be  favorable  in  our  proceed- 
ings. For  me,  if  thy  constancy  be  such  as  my  true  zeal  is,  I 
beseech  thee  by  the  same  goddess  to  succor  me,  by  whom  I  found 
myself  first  enthralled  and  made  subject  to  thee  :  meanwhile  I 
will  write  as  thyself,  and  rest  as  I  am.  The  most  unhappiest 
lover  that  liveth.  Prisceria. 

These  conclusions  being  ministered  with  the  same  aspects  they 
were  proffered,  the  two  poor  couple  had  no  other  means  to  note 
the  effect  of  their  private  joys,  but  only  by  silent  smiles,  gracious 
regards,  and  trickling  tears,  and  suchlike  amorous  actions,  each 
one  wishing  the  other,  either  happy  in  possessing  their  delight, 
or  fortunate,  if  by  death  they  relieved  of  their  sorrow :  and  being 
intercepted  by  the  closure  of  the  evening,  they  betook  themselves 
both  of  them  to  their  restless  pillows,  concluding  upon  many 


I20  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

purposes,  how  to  finish  their  languishing  and  tormenting  martyr- 
dom. Forbonius  as  one  born  to  attempt,  concluded  with  him- 
self, considering  how  favorably  all  occasions  fawned  upon  him, 
to  attempt  the  stealing  away  of  Prisceria  :  who  poor  fool  in  care- 
ful dreams  imagining  of  her  day's  fancies,  was  forestalled  of  all 
favor  by  the  unhappy  approach  of  her  father,  who  furnished  with 
all  worldly  pohcies  to  prevent  what  he  misliked,  and  to  compass 
that  he  suspected  :  perceiving  by  his  daughter's  solemn  aspects, 
some  secret  sorrow  that  troubled  her,  having  remembered  that 
axiom  of  the  philosophers,  that  dreams  are  the  prefigurations  of 
day's  sorrow,  watched  his  time  so  nearly,  that  even  at  that  very 
instant  he  entered  the  chamber  of  his  daughter,  when  drowned 
in  her  sweet  delightful  dreams,  she  began  at  his  entry  to  cry  out 
thus.  O  fortunate  Forbonius  !  which  her  father  marking  very 
precisely,  and  concluding  whereupon  the  sigh  took  his  holdfast, 
awaking  his  daughter  on  a  sudden,  very  cunningly  compassed  her 
thus. 

O  my  Prisceria,  let  it  not  seem  strange  unto  thee,  to  behold 
thine  aged  father's  unaccustomable  access,  since  he  is  now  per- 
plexed with  unacquainted  fears. 

Alas  my  daughter,  thy  father  seeing  thee  beautiful,  is  not  care- 
less of  thy  comfort,  neither  can  he  that  labored  to  bring  thee  to 
light,  suffer  thee  to  pass  thy  days  in  loathsome  mislike.  At  this 
instant  when  I  entered  thy  chamber,  in  thy  dream  (as  me  seemed) 
thy  soul  betokening  (as  it  should  seem)  some  day's  sorrow  or 
pleasure,  exclaimed  thus :  O  fortunate  Forbonius,  thou  knowest 
how  hateful  the  person  thou  didst  name  is  to  thy  father,  who  if 
he  be  fortunate  in  thy  dowery,  I  love  him  :  I  shall  esteem  him 
unfortunate  in  the  favor  thou  wilt  assure  him  :  who  being  a  collop 
of  my  flesh,  wilt  not  allow  of  that,  which  is  loathsome  to  thy 
father :  O  Prisceria  Soldyvius  seeth,  and  thy  secret  dreams  be- 
wray that  the  fortunacy  of  Forbonius  is  either  unfortunate  for 
thyself,  or  not  allowable  by  thy  father's  opinion.  Thy  change  of 
constitution,  thy  hidden  sorrow,  my  sweet  child  made  me  sus- 
picious, but  now  the  very  true  messenger  of  thy  mind  confirming 
me,  I  must  without  circumstance  conclude,  that  Prisceria  loveth 


FORBONIUS  AND   PRISCERIA,  121 

her  father's  enemy,  that  Prisceria  desireth  Forbonius'  favor,  and 
detesteth  her  father's  choice,  which  if  it  be  so,  O  my  daughter, 
I  fear  me  thy  love  will  not  be  so  favorable,  as  my  disdain  bitter, 
wherefore  if  thou  art  entangled,  since  thou  knowest  my  opinion, 
forbear,  or  if  no  wisdom  will  conclude  thee  within  limits,  my 
displeasure  shall  exclude  thee  from  out  all  benefit  of  my  favor. 
Choose  now  Prisceria,  whether  with  calm  persuasions  thou  wilt 
yield  to  my  bent,  or  by  unaccustomed  displeasure  be  partaker  of 
thy  father's  wrath. 

Upon  these  conclusions,  Prisceria  all  abashed,  shaking  off  the 
drowsiness  of  her  dreaming,  made  answer  to  Soldyvius  in  these 
terms. 

These  strange  suppositions,  my  good  father,  argue  the  slender 
opinion  of  yourself,  who  by  the  uncertainest  signs  that  may  be, 
confirm  your  opinion  as  you  please.  In  my  dream  you  said  I 
called  Forbonius  fortunate,  and  may  it  not  be,  that  as  my  tongue 
uttered  that  it  thought  not,  your  mind  imagineth  that  which  is 
not?  counting  every  light  shadow  a  substance,  and  every  litde 
similitude  of  truth,  an  undoubted  demonstration.  Did  I  call 
thine  enemy  fortunate?  Truly,  father,  I  fear  me  I  might  justly 
conclude  it,  for  he  poor  gentleman  little  dreameth  on  dis- 
pleasures, when  at  such  time  as  rest  should  occupy  your  senses, 
you  must  travail  in  your  rancor :  by  certain  tokens  as  you  say,  you 
conclude,  that  I  am  afi'ectionate,  and  by  this  silly  conclusion  of  a 
dream,  you  infer  an.  undoubted  truth,  that  I  am  enamored  with 
Forbonius,  and  if  perhaps  the  necessity  of  the  fates  be  such, 
Prisceria  shall  find  herself  happy  in  loving  Forbonius,  by  those 
means  her  father  may  cease  rancour,  and  take  rest,  and  his 
daughter  satisfied  with  that  she  seeketh  for  be  no  farther  troubled 
with  dreaming  fantasies. 

Soldyvius  perceiving  by  these  speeches  the  certainty  of  his 
daughter's  affection,  as  one  altogether  enraged,  calling  up  his 
wife,  and  raising  his  servants,  left  the  silly  maid  all  amazed  at 
his  sudden  departure,  whereas  the  old  man  exclaiming  upon  the 
disobedience  of  his  daughter,  and  thundering  out  many  revenges 
against  poor  Prisceria,  caused  his  horses  to  be  saddled,  and  per« 


122  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

force  (contrary  to  her  expectation)  made  her  be  conveyed  to 
Farnusium,  a  manor  house  of  his  own,  a  place  for  the  solitari- 
ness more  fit  for  a  Tymon,  than  convenient  for  a  beautiful  lady, 
the  only  company  there  being  shepherds,  who  upon  the  vast 
mountains  recorded  the  praise  of  the  country  favorer,  Pan,  and 
the  rural  amity  between  them  and  their  country  lasses.  Thus 
from  stately  court,  from  the  regards  of  her  sweet  friend,  from  the 
'.pleasures  that  follow  the  city,  her  companions  were  rural  maid- 
ens,  her  retinue  frolic  shepherds  :  whose  slight  capacity  not  yield- 
ing any  comfort  to  allay  the  gentlewoman's  sorrowing  made  her 
(to  her  more  heart  grief)  continue  her  pensiveness,  and  suffer  her 
conceived  sorrow  in  silence.  But  to  repeat  the  moan  on  the 
other  side  that  amorous  Forbonius  made,  when  by  certain  report 
he  had  notice  of  his  mistress'  departure,  were  wonderful ;  who 
being  in  himself  altogether  confounded,  not  knowing  where  to  find 
her  out  which  was  the  only  mistress  of  his  fantasy.  Lord  !  with 
how  many  sighs  breathed  he  forth  his  sorrow,  and  compassed  on 
every  side  with  despairing  joys,  in  the  very  same  garden  where 
before  he  repeated  his  pleasures,  he  in  these  wailful  terms 
recounted  his  miseries  : 

Alas  unfortunate  Egyptian,  whose  faithful  affections  are  so  im- 
mutable, as  thy  natural  color  is  unstainable.  How  injurious  are  the 
destinies?  that  granting  thee  life,  they  daily  hasten  thy  destruc- 
tion, that  vouchsafing  thee  pleasure,  they  suffer  it  not  to  be  per- 
manent :  that  admitting  thee  the  benefit  of  beauty's  good  grace, 
they  deprive  thee  of  the  possession  and  blessing  of  that  thou 
desirest :  Alas  what  shall  befall  me  ?  when  the  glory  of  my  eyes 
are  dimmed?  when  the  pleasures  of  my  heart  are  determined? 
when  she  whom  I  love  nearest  is  farther  off  from  my  presence  ? 
when  the  injurious  repulses  of  the  father,  makes  every  attempt  of 
Forbonius  unfortunate.  Wo  is  me,  what  way  rriay  I  imagine  to 
make  an  end  of  my  misery?  Should  I  with  despairing  rashness 
finish  up  the  catastrophe  of  my  troubles?  Should  I  being  bereft 
of  her  by  whom  I  live,  dispossess  myself  of  that  she  most  doth 
like  ?  Should  I  making  myself  only  fortunate  by  the  allay  of  my 
sorrows,  leave  Prisceria  to  her  daily  mournings,  both  to  lament 


FORBONIUS  AND  PRISCERIA,  I23 

my  deceasTire,  and  her  froward  destiny?  No  Forbonius,  it  is 
but  vain  quiet  that  is  to  her  discontentment,  who  being  equally 
enthralled  with  thyself,  will  as  willingly  be  partaker  of  thy  torment 
as  thyself.  But  why  wail  I  thus  in  feminine  sorrow,  when  my  hap- 
piness is  to  be  accomplished  by  manly  attempt?  Soldyvius' 
rigor  hath  caused  Prisceria's  absence,  yet  cannot  the  father's  dis- 
pleasure determine  the  daughter's  love.  She  liveth  to  thy  wish 
Forbonius,  she  loveth  to  thy  weal,  Forbonius,  she  will  be  constant 
til  death  Forbonius,  why  shouldest  thou  then  leave  her  unsought; 
for  Forbonius  ?  Attempt  vain  man  to  seek  out  thine  assured,  let 
not  the  distance  of  place  disannul  thy  good  hap?  Soldyvius' 
banishment  is  concluded  within  the  limits  of  Egypt,  and  since  it 
is  so,  either  Forbonius  will  attain  her  he  desireth,  or  avenge  the 
unjust  rigor  of  an  injurious  father. 

Upon  this  resolution,  as  a  man  quite  dispossessed  of  himself,  he 
hasted  to  Appollonius,  recounting  unto  him  how  all  things  had 
fortuned,  beseeching  him  (not  without  foison  ^  of  tears)  to  seek 
out  by  art  where  Prisceria  was  conversant,  and  to  direct  him  by 
counsel,  who  altogether  was  confounded  with  despair.  Appol- 
lonius by  exterior  signs  conceiving  the  interior  heart's  grief,  and 
seeing  the  poor  young  gentleman  martyred  so  miraculously,  com- 
paring times  and  revolutions  attained  to'  the  knowledge  of  her 
abroad,  and  concluding  in  himself  to  comfort  him,  which  almost 
despaired,  he  spake  thus  to  Forbonius. 

My  good  friend,  whence  groweth  it,  that  the  nobility  of  thy 
ancestors  ?  nor  thy  forepassed  attempts  ?  neither  the  benefit  of  thy 
mistress'  favor  can  confirm  thee,  but  that  thou  wilt  be  careful  for 
that  which  thou  hast  already  almost  compassed.  Pluck  up  your 
heart  my  sweet  Forbonius,  for  thy  Prisceria  is  not  far  from  thee. 
Farnusium  a  manor  house  of  her  father's  seated  east  out  of  this 
city,  whereas  she  is  so  circumspectly  locked  into  that  not  by  any 
means,  unless  by  secret  and  convenient  policy,  thou  canst  come  to 
the  accomplishment  of  thy  desire.  Thou  must  therefore,  attyred 
altogether  like  a  shepherd,  depart  this  city,  and  by  some  con- 

1  Plenty, 


124  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

venient  means  procure  the  keeping  of  some  one  farmer^s  sheep, 
which  is  resident  among  those  mountains,  by  whose  means  thou 
shalt  fall  in  acquaintance  with  the  garden  ^  of  thy  mistress,  called 
Sotto,  and  having  convenient  occasion  to  satisfy  thy  affection, 
possess  thyself  of  that  thou  hast  long  desired. 

Forbonius  concluding  his  reply  with  hearty  thanks,  suddenly  de- 
parted, and  remembering  himself  of  one  Corbo,  a  tenant  of  his, 
which  had  his  mansion  house  very  conveniently,  seated  hard  by 
the  manor  house  of  Soldyvius,  he  hastily  shaped  his  journey  unto 
him,  and  making  him  privy  to  that  he  desired,  and  swearing  him  to 
be  constant  and  continue  secret,  he  betook  himself  to  the  keeping 
of  his  tenant's  sheep,  and  not  forgetting  to  drive  his  flock  near  unto 
the  lawn  whereas  Soldyvius'  servants  graised  their  sheep,  he  so 
demeaned  himself,  that  not  only  he  attained  the  favor  of  Sotto 
which  he  sought  for,  but  also  for  his  courteous  affability  was  ac- 
counted of  among  the  whole  troop  of  herdsmen  for  the  best  singer, 
and  tunablest  musician.  His  Eclogues  were  so  delectable,  and  the 
delivery  of  them  so  delicate.  Whereupon  by  good  fortune  it  so  fell 
out,  that  Forbonius  under  the  colorable  name  of  Arvalio,  was  de- 
sired by  Sotto,  to  resort  unto  the  manor  house,  who  informed  him 
of  all  that  happened,  telling  him  of  the  careful  demeanor  of  his  sor- 
rowing young  mistress,  who  pleased  with  nothing  but  with  solitary 
music,  pined  herself  away  with  melancholy,  and  not  without  cause, 
(said  he) ,  for  my  old  master  hath  forbid  me  the  admitting  of  any- 
one to  her  presence,  not  suffering  her  to  pass  the  limits  of  my 
wary  eye  :  nor  allowing  her  to  walk  without  the  castle  walls  for  her 
recreation.  For  my  sake  therefore  chant  her  some  melody,  and 
resort  with  me  to  a  convenient  arbor  within  our  garden,  whereas  she 
walking  for  her  recreation,  may  perhaps  take  some  delight  in  thy 
sorrowful  mournings,  in  that  they  most  fit  her  fantasy.  Forbonius 
as  willing  to  wend,  as  he  desirous  to  persuade,  accompanied  Sotto 
to  Farnusium,  where  having  a  place  appointed  him  to  apply  his 
eclogues  and  the  goddess  before  him  whom  he  should  devine  ^ 
upon,  he  under   these   secrets  described   his   passions.     [Here 

1  Collier  reads  "garden[er]."    Arber  suggests  "guardian." 

2  Devise. 


FORBONIUS  AND   PRISCERIA.  1 25 

follows  an  eclogue  of  some  two  hundred  verses,  wherein  Arvalio 
sings  the  beauty  of  his  mistress  and  describes  her  charms.] 

This  delectable  eclogue  finished  by  the  amorous  Forbonius, 
gave  occasions  to  Prisceria  to  satisfy  the  thoughts  that  then 
troubled  her  fantasy.  For  confounded  in  herself,  not  knowing 
what  to  conclude  of  that  the  shepherd  Arvalio  had  reported,  yet 
well  nigh  persuades  ^  that  the  reporter  was  he  she  liked  of,  with  a 
seemly  grace,  not  minding  to  incur  the  lightest  suspicion,  turning; 
toward  Forbonius,  whose  hand  was  on  his  half-penny,^  she  said 
thus. 

Gentle  Shepherd,  that  nymph  thou  lovest  should  alter  from 
womanhood,  that  considering  thy  true  zeal,  and  exquisite  pro- 
portions, would  not  requite  thy  loyalty,  with  the  benefit,  of  her 
love.  Truly  Madame  (answered  the  imagined  ArvaHo)  and  I 
think  myself  gracious  in  this,  that  for  her  whom  I  love  I  am 
enjoined  this  torment,  whereupon  turning  himself  aside,  and 
drying  up  the  tears  which  should  bewray  his  fancy,  he  was  at  last 
known  by  Prisceria,  who  altogether  amazed  at  the  presence  of 
Forbonius,  forgetting  wellnigh  the  infortunacy  she  was  entangled 
in,  cast  her  arms  about  his  neck,  yet  coloring  with  a  seemly  dis- 
dain to  shadow  her  opinion  and  blindfold  subtil  Sotto,  she  said 
thus.  Truly  shepherd,  if  I  may  prevail  with  thy  mistress,  thou 
shalt  not  be  unrewarded  for  this  courtesy :  and  Madame  (said 
Forbonius)  might  I  counsel  your  ladyship,  you  should  not  sorrow 
for  that  may  be  compassed  at  your  pleasure. 

This  said,  Sotto  taking  Arvalio  by  the  hand,  took  his  leave  of 
his  young  mistress  thus  :  My  young  lady,  I  as  studious  of  your  pleas- 
ure as  may  be,  have  brought  you  this  young  shepherd  to  laugh  at, 
and  if  his  music  like  you,  you  shall  have  every  day  at  the  least  v, 
lay  or  two.  And  herein  shalt  thou  do  me  no  small  pleasure  said 
Prisceria?  and  so  with  a  seemly  regard  shaping  a  loth  departure, 
the  two  shepherds  resorted  to  their  flocks,  Arvalio  altogether 
amazed  at  his  mistress'  beauty,  and  Sotto  very  jocund  he  had 
fitted  his  young  lady's  fancy  so  well :  whereupon  the  old  shep- 

Persuad[ed].  —  David  Laing. 
2  "  On  his  guard ;  "  hence  "  to  dissemble."  —  Grosart. 


126  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

herd,  turning  to  our  solitary  and  distressed  Arvalio,  said  thus, 
what  makes  thee  thus  solemn  my  youthly  compeer?  cease  to 
grieve  thyself  about  those  things  that  may  be  compassed,  if  thou 
love,  time  shall  eat  out  that  which  treacle  cannot,  and  thou  shalt 
either  be  fortunate  in  possessing  her  thou  desirest,  or  in  overpass- 
ing thy  passions  with  good  government,  leave  love  to  those  that 
like  her.  Arvalio  not  to  seek  ^  of  courteous  humanity,  gave  him 
this  answer.  O  Sotto,  it  is  not. the  love  that  grieveth  me,  but  the 
means  to  compass  love  :  I  labor  not  to  attain  love,  but  to  possess 
the  profits  of  my  long  service  in  love :  as  for  time,  it  may  work 
wonders  in  them  that  are  repulsed  :  but  when  Cupid  is  gracious, 
and  occasions  unfortunate,  think  you  that  this  is  not  a  bitter  sour? 
Yea,  but  answered  Sotto,  and  if  it  be  so  Arvalio  pluck  up  thy 
spirits  and  doubt  thou  not,  but  if  thou  prove  diligent  in  pleasing 
my  young  mistress,  I  mean  not  to  be  idle,  if  I  may  know  whom 
thou  likest  of.  As  for  that  doubt  not,  said  our  disguised  Forbo- 
nius,  for  since  I  know  by  thy  only  means  my  love  is  to  be  com- 
passed, I  will  not  stick  in  so  slight  a  pleasure  to  profit,  when  as 
by  thy  means  I  may  only  succor  myself.  In  such  like  terms 
passing  over  their  wearisome  walk  :  at  last  they  betook  them- 
selves each  of  them  to  the  folding  of  their  sheep,  for  it  was  well 
nigh  night,  and  the  sun  was  steeped  in  the  ocean :  whereupon 
Arvalio  the  shepherd,  becoming  now  Forbonius  indeed,  hasted 
him  home  unto  his  tenant's  house,  making  him  both  privy  of  his 
happy  fortune,  and  concluding  with  himself  how  to  perform  that 
he  wished  for,  and  for  that  long  travail  requireth  some  quiet,  he 
betook  himself  to  rest :  where  recotnpencing  all  his  night's  wakings, 
with  a  quiet  sleep  :  at  dawn  of  day  he  returned  in  his  counterfeit 
habit  unto  the  field,  and  unfolding  his  flock,  he  drave  them  unto 
those  pastures,  that  were  adjoining  to  Sotto's  walk  :  who  no  sooner 
spied  Arvalio,  but  saluting  him  very  courteously,  he  earnestly 
entreated  him  (setting  all  excuses  apart)  to  go  to  Farnusium,  and 
in  the  best  sort  that  he  might  to  solace  the  unfortunate  Pris- 
ceria,  who  only  waiting  that  occasion,  commending  his  flock  to 
the  over-sight  of  the  old  man  and  accompanied  with  Saracca 

1  Not  deficient  in.  —  Grosart. 


FORBONIUS  AND   PRISCERIA. 


127 


the  daughter  of  the  old  Sotto,  he  was  presented  to  his  desired, 
within  the  castle,  who  by  the  absence  of  Sotto  finding  all  occasions 
to  serve  her  turn,  having  sent  silly  Saracca  about  some  sleeveless 
errand,  she  taking  the  occasion  proffered,  said  thus  to  Forbonius : 
Blest  be  that  sweet  conceit  of  thine  (O  my  friend),  which  to  the 
unfortunate  rigor  of  my  father,  hath  adopted  so  convenient  an  end. 
Now  mayest  thou  with  as  great  pleasures  enjoy  thy  desired,  as 
with  deep  perplexities  thou  hast  sorrowed  in  her  absence.  Now 
neither  distance  can  sever  us  from  embracing,  nor  the  watchful 
eye  of  my  father  intercept  thee  of  thy  wish.  See  here  thy  Pris- 
ceria,  who  though  the  fates  work  never  so  contrary,  will  live  to 
Forbonius  and  only  love  Forbonius. 

This  said,  with  many  kisses  comforting  him  which  was  almost 
overcome  with  pleasant  imaginations,  she  was  returned  this  answer 
by  her  most  assured  favorer. 

O  Prisceria,  if  overpressed  with  many  suspicious  thoughts,  if 
made  partaker  of  the  infernal  tortures  in  Phlegethon,  if  subject  to 
the  punishment  of  the  daughters  of  Danaus,  or  affixed  to  the  tor- 
ture that  martyreth  Titius,^  I  should  be  confirmed  by  this  only 
benefit  in  opinion,  and  made  constant  in  all  misfortunes,  yea, 
even  to  overcome  the  insupportable  travails  of  the  sisters,  and  be 
enabled  with  constancy  to  subdue  all  torments  whatsoever,  by 
remembrance  only  of  one  gracious  regard.  It  is  neither  thy 
father's  rancor  sweet  Prisceria,  nor  distance  of  place,  nor  any  one 
occasion  whatsoever,  can  either  sequester  me  of  my  hope,  nor  thee 
of  the  possession  of  thy  wished  :  cast  off  therefore  all  doubt  of 
after  dole,  and  assure  yourself,  that  as  this  pleasure  hath  his  origi- 
nal this  present  instant,  so  by  my  means  ere  long  it  shall  be 
continued  for  everlasting  memory.  Passing  the  time  in  such  like 
pleasures,  and  ministering  a  remedy  unto  each  other's  torments,  I 
cannot  tell,  whether  by  the  iniquity  of  destiny,  or  otherwise : 
Soldyvius  learning  out  Forbonius'  departure  and  suspicious  of  his 
forward  attempts,  at  that  very  instant  arrived  at  Farnusium,  when 
the  two  amorous  couple,  little  doubting^  his  sudden  approach, 

1  Prometheus',  the  Titan,  *  Suspecting. 


128  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION'* 

were  coasted  with  this  sour  ^  in  midst  of  all  their  sweet,  that  the 
enemy  of  their  pleasures  even  then  entered  the  castle,  when  as 
it  seemed  the  fates  had  prefixed  them  that  conveniency  and 
opportunity  to  allay  their  long  sorrowing.  The  fruit  of  whose 
advent  brought  to  the  ears  of  Prisceria,  Lord  !  how  she  was  con- 
founded in  herself,  how  dismayed  was  Forbonius  at  that  instant 
how  at  that  very  time  were  they  both  astonished,  when  most 
circumspection  should  be  had  :  so  that  scarce  they  had  then  dried 
up  their  tears,  when  as  Soldyvius  entering  the  chamber,  quickly 
discovered  the  whole  counterfeit  (for  jealous  eyes  inflamed  with 
rancour  pretermit  nothing)  whereupon  the  old  man  at  first, 
nothing  at  all  deluded  by  the  strange  habit,  spying  out  their 
proceedings,  laying  violent  hands  on  Forbonius  caused  him 
forcibly  to  be  conveyed  to  the  strongest  tower  in  the  castle,  and 
turning  himself  to  Prisceria,  he  began  thus.  O  thou  wicked  and 
ungracious  maid  degenerating  from  the  nobility  of  thy  ancestors, 
and  led  by  unseemly  affections,  not  directed  by  the  likings  of  thy 
tender  parents,  in  what  terms  should  I  accuse  thee  ?  or  bewray  my 
sorrows?  Woe  is  me  that  am  enforced  to  be  an  eye  witness  of 
mine  own  sorrow,  and  to  behold  that  with  mine  eyes  that  I  hate 
in  my  heart :  Is  this  the  reward  of  breeding  children  ?  Is  this 
the  benefit  that  is  reaped  by  issue  ?  Are  these  the  pleasures  that 
befall  parents?  O  Soldyvius,  happy  hadst  thou  been,  if  either 
Prisceria  had  been  unborn,  or  thou  unmarried  :  by  the  one  thou 
shouldest  have  escaped  this  present  misery,  by  the  other  pre- 
vented the  untoward  sorrow  that  now  confoundeth  thee.  Is  thy 
love  to  be  fixed  there  where  I  hate?  or  shouldest  thou  be 
amorous  of  him  who  is  odious  to  thy  father?  O  vile  wretch 
born  among  the  Hyrcanian  tigers,^  which  respecting  not  thy 
father's  felicity,  overburthenest  his  old  years  with  unlooked  for 
calamity :  but  if  ever  just  gods  pitied  a  lawful  complaint,  I 
doubt  not  but  they  that  minister  justice  to  all  men,  will  break 
the  injuries  thou  hast  done  to  me. 

^   Overtaken  by  this  mishap. 

2  Compare  Macbeth,  III.  4.   ,  . 


FORBONIUS  AND  PRISCERIA,  1 29 

Thus  said,  he  sat  down  altogether  confounded  with  melancholy. 
When  as  Prisceria  finding  occasion  to  speak  for  herself,  began 
thus. 

Who  seekest,  O  father,  to  prevent  the  destinies,  laboreth  in 
vain,  and  who  endeavoreth  to  alter  nature,  as  he  striveth  against 
the  stream,  so  must  he  perish  in  his  own  overweening ;  the  gods 
have  concluded  our  love,  and  will  you  being  a  creature  seek  to 
infringe  it  ?  Alas  !  my  father,  why  should  my  pleasure  be  your 
discomfort  ?  or  that  by  which  I  live,  prove  that  which  you  must 
hate  ?  Do  you  not  herein  break  nature  ?  who  lay  violent  hands 
on  your  own  flesh,  and  seek  to  alter  that  by  rigor,  that  was 
ordained  by  divine  instinct?  O  let  your  rancor  overslip 
(my  good  father)  and  if  ever  humble  suit  prevaileth  with 
an  honorable  mind,  cease  to  hate  him  whom  I  love :  and 
couple  us  both  together,  whom  the  gods  having  joined  in  an 
assured  league  of  friendship,  it  cannot  be  but  injustice  to  alter 
their  proceedings. 

Soldyvius  not  able  to  digest  the  fury  of  his  passion,  nor  willing 
to  weigh  of  the  submissive  request  -of  his  daughter,  interrupted 
her  thus  : 

And  is  it  not  sufficient  for  thee  (vain  wench  as  thou  art)  to 
pass  the  hmits  of  nature?  but  to  continue  thine  error  too? 
Thinkest  thou  to  compass  me  with  tears?  who  without  sighs 
cannot  call  to  memory  thy  escape?  No,  Prisceria  both  thou 
shalt  see,  and  that  varlet  shall  know,-  that  my  displeasure  will  not 
be  finished  but  with  blood  nor  my  anger  satisfied  till  I  have  con- 
founded him  who  hath  discomforted  me.  Whereupon  flinging 
out  of  the  chamber  in  a  great  rage,  and  fastening  both  bolts  and 
locks,  he  with  his  train  resorted  to  the  imprisoned  poor  shepherd, 
his  capital  enemy  Forbonius,  whom  after  he  had  taunted  with 
these  unjust  terms,  he  proceeded  further  to  this  unjust  revenge : 
Thou  cursed  and  abhominable  caitif,  is  it  not  sufficient  by  the 
injuries  of  thy  father  Clunamos,  to  move  my  patience,  but  that 
thou  in  person  must  violate  my  daughter?  Thinkest  thou  that 
the  gods  detest  not  these  injuries  ?  when  as  with  wicked  attempts 
thou  bewitchest  the   daughter,  and  massacrest  the  father?     Nay 

9 


130  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

neither  in  justice  will  they  pretermit  ^  the  offence,  nor  will  nature 
suffer  me  to  bear  with  thine  error :  prepare  thyself  therefore  to 
make  him  recompence  with  thy  blood,  whom  thou  hast  troubled 
with  thy  attempt. 

Forbonius  confounded  with  sorrow  and  amazed  at  this  austere 
judgment,  yet  remembering  the  nobility  that  was  always  accounted 
in  him,  answered  him  thus. 

Although  enraged  rancour  hath  made  thee  pass  the  limits  of 
honor,  (O  Soldyvius)  yet  pass  not  so  far  in  thy  resolutions,  as  to 
stain  the  dignity  of  thy  person,  with  the  martyrdom  of  a  guilt- 
less gentleman.  If  I  did  hate  thy  daughter,  that  little  envy  that 
grew  by  my  father's  displeasure,  might  by  reason  grow  to  deep 
and  rooted  malice,  but  when  I  love  Prisceria,  why  should  I  be 
contemned  of  Soldyvius?  It  should  seem  that  love  was  not 
accounted  loathsome  among  the  gods,  when  as  prefixing  a 
punishment  to  all  escapes,^  they  prescribe  an  honor  to  this : 
chiefly  concluding  it  to  be  a  virtue  :  whereupon  thou  must  con- 
clude, that  either  thou  contemnest  the  decrees  of  the  gods,  or 
measurest  all  things  by  thine  own  malice.  Thou  threatenest  me 
with  death  (vain  man)  and  I  weigh  not  the  dissolution  of  my 
body :  for  this  I  assure  thee,  as  long  as  I  may  live,  I  will  honor 
Prisceria,  and  being  dead,  my  ghost  shall  persecute  thee  with 
revenge,  and  prosecute  my  affections  toward  my  best  beloved. 
So  Prisceria  live,  Forbonius  careth  not  to  die,  the  only  memory  of 
whom  shall  make  me  constant  in  misfortunes,  and  willing  to 
withstand  the  brunt  of  thy  cruelty :  whereupon  my  conclusion  is, 
that  if  Soldyvius  for  faithful  assurance  will  become  a  friendly 
allower  of  Forbonius,  he  which  by  reason  of  the  malice  of  his 
father  had  once  cause  to  hate  him,  will  now  honor  him,  and  that 
strife  which  separated  two  so  noble  families,  shall  now  be  finished 
in  our  happy  marriage  :  if  this  like  not,  proceed  as  thou  pleasest. 
In  granting  me  favor,  thou  shalt  find  honor,  in  bereaving  me  of 
life,  thou  shalt  finish  all  my  misfortunes. 

The  discourse  of  Forbonius  thus  ended,  Soldyvius  began  thus, 

1  Omit. 

2  Escapades.  —  Grosart. 


FORBONIUS  AND  PRISCERIA,  I3I 

after  that  he  had  somewhat  digested  his  choler:  Although 
Forbonius  the  injuries  thou  hast  offered  me,  together  with 
former  displeasures,  be  sufficient  to  continue  my  resolution,  yet 
weighing  with  myself  that  it  is  vain  to  alter  that  which  is  prefixed 
by  destiny,  won  by  reason  which  directeth  all  men,  and  by  the 
tender  love  I  bear  my  daughter,  which  should  prevail  with  a 
father:  I  yield  thee  thy  love  to  enjoy  in  chaste  wedlock,  and 
whereas  thou  lookest  I  should  be  thy  tormentor,  lo  I  I  am  now 
contented  to  be  thy  unlooked  for  father.  Whereupon  taking 
Forbonius  by  the  hand,  and  conveying  him  to  Prisceria's 
chamber,  he  confirmed  the  gentleman  in  his  former  purpose,  and 
his  daughter  of  his  assured  favor,  using  these  kind  of  terms  to 
discover  his  intention :  My  daughter,  that  father  that  even  now 
heinously  misliked  of  thy  lover,  now  glorying  in  thy  liking,  and  he 
which  whilom  hated  Forbonius,  now  vouchsafeth  him  his  son-in- 
law  :  whereupon  comfort  yourselves  with  mutual  solace,  and  to- 
morrow we  will  to  the  city  to  finish  up  the  ceremonies.  The  two 
lovers  compassed  with  incredible  pleasures  and  not  able  to  sup- 
press the  affections  that  possessed  them,  but  by  breaking  out  into 
speech :  they  both  humbled  themselves  to  aged  Soldyvius, 
returning  him  by  the  mouth  of  Forbonius  these  thanks : 

O  noble  gentleman,  it  may  not  be  expressed  by  tongue,  what  I 
imagine  in  heart,  who  by  your  means,  of  the  most  unfortunatest 
man  that  liveth,  am  become  the  only  happy  man  of  the  world  : 
notwithstanding  this,  in  lieu  of  all  favor,  I  will  return  you,  that 
both  by  that  means  all  private  quarrels  shall  cease  between  our 
two  families,  and  you  registered  in  our  Egyptian  records,  for  the 
only  peace-maker  of  Memphis.  In  these  sweet  speeches  over- 
passing the  day  and  night,  the  next  morrow  the  whole  train 
posted  to  Memphis,  whereas  by  the  high-priest  of  the  sun  they 
were  solemnly  espoused,  and  after  many  sorrows  were  recom- 
pensed with  nuptial  pleasure. 

Now  ladies  and  .gentlewomen,  I  must  leave  this  to  your  consider- 
ation, whether  the  lovers  for  their  constancy  are  more  to  be  com- 
mended, or  the  old  man  for  his  patience  more  to  be  wondered 
at :  I  leave  you  to  fit  that  conclusion,  till  you  have  read  what  is 


132  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

written,  promising  you  that  if  my  rude  discourse  have  wrought 
you  any  pleasure,  I  will  both  labor  hereafter  to  serve  all  occasions, 
and  so  ^yi  my  studies  as  they  shall  not  far  differ  from  your  fan- 
tasies :  and  thus  craving  you  to  wink  at  an  error,  and  commend 
as  the  cause  requireth,  I  take  my  leave  :  willing  to  be  made 
privy  if  I  have  any  ways  travailed  to  your  contentment. 


DORON'S    WOOING,  133 


V.     BORON'S  WOOING   OF  CARMELA. 

[It  is  rather  unusual  to  find  any  passages  of  conscious  humor  in  the 
Elizabethan  romance.  In  Robert  Greene's  "Menaphon"  (1588),  however, 
we  find  the  episode  of  Doron  and  Carmela,  which  may  be  taken  as  one  of 
the  rare  instances  of  an  intentional  and  fairly  successful  attempt  thereat. 
The  characters  named  are  subordinate  in  the  tale  ;  the  real  heroine  of  the 
romance  being  Samela,  an  unfortunate  lady,  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of 
Arcadie.  Menaphon,  an  Arcadian  shepherd,  becomes  the  lady's  wooer,  and 
other  suitors  appear  upon  the  scene.  A  comic  element  is  furnished  by  the 
presence  of  the  shepherd  Doron,  a  typical  rustic  clown,  whose  successful  suit 
thus  urged  upon  the  chaste  Carmela  is  humorously  described  at  the  story's 
end.  The  "Menaphon"  has  been  edited  by  Edward  Arber  (in  the  English 
Scholar's  Library),  London,  1880.  Robert  Greene,  playwright,  poet,  ro- 
mancer, and  pamphleteer,  was  the  most  prolific  and  voluminous  writer  in  the 
group  of  authors  here  considered.  His  Complete  Works  are  edited  by 
Alexander  B.  Grosart,  London,  1881.] 

Where  leaving  these  passionate  lovers  in  this  catastrophe,  again 
to  Doron,  the  homly,  blunt  shepherd;  who  having  been  long 
enamored  of  Carmela,  much  good  wooing  past  betwixt  them,  and 
yet  little  speeding ;  at  last,  both  of  them  met  hard  by  the  prom- 
ontory of  Arcadie,  she  leading  forth  her  sheep,  and  he  going  to 
see  his  new  yeand  lambs.  As  soon  as  they  met,  breaking  a  few 
quarter  blows  with  such  country  glances  as  they  could,  they  geered 
one  at  another  lovingly. 

At  last  Doron  manfully  began  thus.  Carmela  by  my  troth; 
Good  morrow ;  tis  as  dainty  to  see  you  abroad  as  to  eat  a  mess 
of  sweet  milk  in  July ;  you  are  provd  such  a  house-dove  of  late, 
or  rather  so  good  a  huswif,  that  no  man  may  see  you  under  a 
couple  of  capons,  the  church-yeard  may  stand  long  enough  ere 
you  will  come  to  look  on  it,  and  the  piper  may  beg  for  every 
penny  he  gets  out  of  your  purse  :  but  it  is  no  matter,  you  are  in 
love  with  some  stout  ruffler,  and  yet  poor  folks,  such  as  I  am, 
must  be  content  with  porredge.  And  with  that,  turning  his 
back  he  smiled  in  his  sieve  to  see  how  kindly  he  had  given  her 
the  bob. 


134  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

Which  Carmela  seeing,  she  thought  to  be  even  with  him  thus. 
Indeed,  Doron,  you  say  well,  it  is  long  since  we  met,  and  our 
house  is  a  Grange  house  with  you  :  but  we  have  tied  up  the  great 
dog,  and  when  you  come  you  shall  have  green  mokes ;  you  are 
such  a  stranger :  but  tis  no  matter :  soon  hot,  soon  cold ;  he  that 
mingles  himself  with  draffe,  the  hogs  will  eat  him :  and  she  that 
lays  her  love  on  an  unkind  man,  shall  find  sorrow  enough  to  eat 
her  sops  withall.  And  with  that  Carmela  was  so  full  stomached 
that  she  wept. 

Doron  to  show  himself  a  natural  young  man,  gave  her  a  few 
kind  kisses  to  comfort  her,  and  sware  that  she  was  the  woman  he 
loved  best  in  the  whole  world  and  for  proof,  quoth  he,  thou 
shalt  hear  what  I  will  praise. 

And  you,  quoth  she,  what  I  will  perform. 

And  so  taking  hand  in  hand,  they  kindly  sate  them  down  and 
began  to  discourse  their  loves  in  these  ecloges. 

DORON'S   ECLOGE  JOINED   WITH   CARMELA'S. 

Sit  down  Carmela,  here  are  cubbs  for  kings, 
Slowes  black  as  jet,  or  like  my  Christmas  shooes, 
Sweet  sidar,  which  my  leathern  bottle  brings  : 
Sit  down  Carmela,  let  me  kiss  thy  toes. 

Carmela. 

Ah  Doron,  ah  my  heart  thou  art  as  white 
As  is  my  mother's  calf  or  brindled  cow, 
Thine  eyes  are  like  the  slow  worms  in  the  night, 
Thine  hairs  resemble  thickest  of  the  snow. 

The  lines  within  thy  face  are  deep  and  clear, 
Like  to  the  furrows  of  my  father's  wain : 
The  sweat  upon  thy  face  doth  oft  appear, 
Like  to  my  mother's  fat  and  kitchen  gaine. 

Ah  leave  my  toe  and  kiss  my  lips,  my  love, 
My  lips  are  thine  for  I  have  given  them  thee  : 
Within  thy  cap  tis  thou  shalt  weare  my  glove, 
At  foot-ball  sport,  thou  shalt  my  champion  be. 


DORON'S   WOOING.  135 

DORON. 

Carmela  dear,  even  as  the  golden  ball 
That  Venus  got,  such  are  thy  goodly  eyes : 
When  cherries  juice  is  jumbled  therewithall, 
Thy  breath  is  like  the  steam  of  apple  pies. 
Thy  lips  resemble  two  cowcumbers  fair. 
Thy  teeth  like  to  the  tusks  of  fattest  swine, 
Thy  speech  is  like  the  thunder  in  the  air ; 
Would  God  thy  toes,  thy  lips,  and  all  were  mine. 

Carmela. 
Doron,  what  thing  doth  move  this  wishing  grief  ? 

DORON. 

Tis  love,  Carmela,  ah  tis  cruel  love. 
That  like  a  slave,  and  caitif  villain  thief. 
Hath  cut  my  throat  of  joy  for  my  behove. 

Carmela. 
Where  was  he  borne  ? 

Doron. 
In  faith  I  know  not  where, 
But  I  have  heard  much  talking  of  his  dart. 
Ay  me  poor  man,  with  many  a  trampling  tear, 
I  feel  him  wound  the  forehearse  of  my  heart. 

What,  do  I  love  ?     O  no,  I  do  but  talk. 
What,  shall  I  die  for  love  ?    O  no,  not  so. 
What,  am  I  dead  ?    O  no,  my  tongue  doth  walk. 
Come  kiss,  Carmela  and  confound  my  wo. 

Carmela. 
Even  with  this  kiss,  as  once  my  father  did, 
I  seal  the  sweet  indentures  of  delight: 
Before  I  break  my  vow  the  Gods  forbid. 
No  not  by  day,  nor  yet  by  darksome  night 


136  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

DORON. 

Even  with  this  garland  made  of  holyhocks, 
I  cross  thy  brows  from  every  shepherd's  kiss. 
Heigh-ho,  how  glad  am  I  to  touch  thy  locks, 
My  frolic  heart  even  now  a  free  man  is. 

Carmela. 
I  thank  you,  Doron,  and  will  think  on  you, 
I  love  you,  Doron,  and  will  wink  on  you. 
I  seal  your  charter  patent  with  my  thumbs. 
Come  kiss  and  part,  for  fear  my  mother  comes. 

Thus  ended  this  merry  eclog  betwixt  Doron  and  Carmela 
which,  Gentlemen,  if  it  be  stuft  with  pretty  similes  and  far- 
fetched metaphors,  think  the  poor  country  lovers  knew  no  fur- 
ther comparisons  than  came  within  compass  of  their  country 
logic. 


THE  SHEPHERDS   WIVES  SONG,  137 


VI.     THE   SHEPHERDS  WIVES   SONG. 

[From  "The  Mourning  Garment"  (1590),  by  Robert  Greene.] 

Ah  what  is  love  ?     It  is  a  pretty  thing, 
As  sweet  unto  a  shepherd  as  a  king, 

And  sweeter  too : 
For  kings  have  cares  that  wait  upon  a  crown. 
And  cares  can  make  the  sweetest  love  to  frown : 

Ah  then,  ah  then. 
If  countrie  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 

His  flocks  are  folded,  he  comes  home  at  night 
As  merry  as  a  king  in  his  delight. 

And  merrier  too  : 
For  kings  bethink  them  what  the  state  require, 
Where  shepherds  careless  carol  by  the  fire. 

Ah  then,  ah  then,  etc. 

lie  kisseth  first,  then  sits  as  blyth  to  eat 

His  cream  and  curds,  as  doth  the  king  his  meat ; 

And  blyther  too : 
For  kings  have  often  fears  when  they  do  sup. 
Where  shepherds  dread  no  poison  in  their  cup. 

Ah  then,  ah  then,  etc. 

To  bed  he  goes,  as  wanton  then  I  ween, 
As  is  a  king  in  dalliance  with  a  queen ; 

More  wanton  too  : 
For  kings  have  many  griefs  affects  to  move 
When  shepherds  have  no  greater  grief  than  love. 

Ah  then,  ah  then,  etc. 


138  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

Upon  his  couch  of  straw  he  sleeps  as  sound 
As  doth  the  king  upon  his  beds  of  down, 

More  sounder  too : 
For  cares  cause  kings  full  oft  their  sleep  to  spill 
Where  weary  shepherds  lie  and  snort  their  fill. 

Ah  then,  ah  then,  etc. 

Thus  with  his  wife  he  spends  the  year  as  blyth 
As  doth  the  king  at  every  tide  or  sith, 

And  blyther  too : 
For  kings  have  warres  and  broils  to  take  in  hand 
When  shepherds  laugh  and  love  upon  the  land. 

Ah  then,  ah  then. 
If  countrie  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain? 


JACK  WILTON.  139 


VII.     JACK  WILTON. 

["  The  Unfortunate  Traveller,  or  the  Life  of  Jack  Wilton,"  published  by 
Thomas  Nash  in  1594,  is  taken  as  representative  of  what  may  be  called  the 
realistic  romance  of  the  sixteenth  century :  in  place  of  the  poetical  environ- 
ment and  fanciful  pursuits  of  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the  pastoral 
romance,  this  class  of  works  dealt  more  with  the  realities  of  situation  and 
character  in  the  world  at  hand.  Many  of  the  episodes  of  this  work  by  Nash 
are  too  coarse  in  their  bluntness  or  brutality  to  be  inserted  here.  The  selec- 
tion which  follows  is  tolerably  complete  in  itself,  and  lacks  those  qualities 
which  mar  our  enjoyment  of  other  portions  of  the  work.  The  description  of 
the  tourney  may  be  of  interest  as  reflecting  some  of  the  grotesque  conceits 
of  the  time.  The  incidents  of  the  Earl  of  Surrey's  visit  to  Florence  with 
his  scapegrace  valet  in  his  train,  although  clearly  an  invention  of  the  story- 
teller, have  been  suggested  once  at  least  to  be  sober  truth  by  a  biographer  of 
the  poet. 

The  Complete  Works  of  Thomas  Nash  have  been  edited  by  Alexander 
B.  Grosart,  in  six  volumes :  Huth  Library,  London,  1883.] 

My  principal  subject  plucks  me  by  the  elbow.  Diamanto 
Castaldos  the  magnifico's  wife,  after  my  enlargement  proved  to 
be  with  child,  at  which  instant  there  grew  an  unsatiable  famine  in 
Venice,  wherein,  whether  it  were  for  mere  niggardise,  or  that 
Castaldo  still  ate  out  his  heart  with  jealousy,  Saint  Anne  be  our 
record,  he  turned  up  the  heels  very  devoutly.  To  master  Aretine 
after  this,  once  more  very  dutifully  I  appealed,  requested  him  of 
favor,  acknowledged  former  gratuities  :  he  made  no  more  humming 
or  halting,  but  in  despite  of  her  husband's  kinsfolks,  gave  her  her 
Nunc  dimittis  and  so  established  her  free  of  my  company. 

Being  out,  and  fully  possessed  of  her  husband's  goods,  she 
invested  me  in  the  state  of  a  monarch.  Because  the  time  of 
childbirth  drew  nigh,  and  she  could  not  remain  in  Venice  but 
discredited,  she  decreed  to  travel  whether  so  ever  I  would  con- 
duct her.  To  see  Italy  throughout  was  my  proposed  scope  and 
that  way  if  she  would  travel,  have  with  her,  I  had  wherewithall  to 
relieve  her. 


i40  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

From  my  master  by  her  full-hand  provokement  I  parted  without 
leave  :  The  state  of  an  Earl  he  had  thrust  upon  me  before,  and  now 
I  would  not  bate  him  an  inch  of  it.  Thro'  all  the  cities  past  I 
by  no  other  name  but  the  young  Earl  of  Surrey :  my  pomp,  train, 
and  expense,  was  nothing  inferior  to  his,  my  looks  were  as  lofty, 
my  words  as  magnifical.  Memorandum,  that  Florence  being  the 
principal  scope  of  my  master's  course,  missing  me,  he  journeyed 
thither  without  interruption.  By  the  way  as  he  went,  he  heard  of 
another  Earl  of  Surrey  besides  himself,  which  caused  him,  make 
more  hast  to  fetch  me  in,  whom  he  little  dreamed  of,  had  such 
art  in  my  budget,  to  separate  the  shadow  from  the  body.  Over- 
take me  at  Florence  he  did,  where  sitting  in  my  pontificalibus 
with  my  courtesan  at  supper,  like  Anthony  and  Cleopatra,  when 
they  quaffed  standing,  bowls  of  wine  spiced  with  pearl  together,  he 
stole  in  ere  we  sent  for  him,  and  bad  much  good  it  us,  and  asked 
us  whether  we  wanted  any  guests.  If  he  had  asked  me  whether  I 
would  have  hanged  myself,  his  question  had  been  more  accept- 
able. He  that  had  then  ungartered  me,  might  have  plucked  out 
my  heart  at  my  hams. 

My  soul  which  was  made  to  soar  upward,  now  sought  for  pas- 
sage downward  :  my  blood  as  the  blushing  Sabine  maids  surprised 
on  the  sudden  by  the  soldiers  of  Romulus,  ran  to  the  noblest  of 
blood  amongst  them  for  succour,  that  were  in  no  less  (if  not  greater 
danger),  so  did  it  run  for  refuge  to  the  noblest  of  his  blood  about, 
my  heart  assembled,  that  stood  in  more  need  itself  of  comfort  and 
refuge.  A  trembling  earthquake  or  shaking  fever  assailed  either 
of  us,  and  I  think  unfeignedly  if  he  seeing  our  faint  heart  agony, 
had  not  soon  cheered  and  refreshed  us,  the  dogs  had  gone  to- 
gether by  the  ears  under  the  table  for  our  fear- dropped  limbs. 

Instead  of  menacing  or  afrighting  me  with  his  sword,  or  his 
frowns  for  my  superlative  presumption,  he  burst  out  into  a  laughter 
above  Ela,  to  think  how  bravely  napping  he  had  took  us,  and  how 
notably  we  were  damped  and  struck  dead  in  the  nest,  with  the 
unexpected  view  of  his  presence. 

Ah,  quoth  he,  my  noble  Lord  (after  his  tongue  had  borrowed  a 
little  leave  of  his  laughter)  is  it  my  luck  to  visit  you  thus  unlooked 


JACK   WILTON,  141 

for?  I  am  sure  you  will  bid  me  welcome,  if  it  be  but  for  thy 
name's  sake.  It  is  a  wonder  to  see  two  English  Earls  of  one 
house  at  one  time  together  in  Italy.  I  hearing  him  so  pleasant, 
began  to  gather  up  my  spirits,  and  replied  as  boldly  as  I  durst. 
Sir,  you  are  welcome,  your  name  which  I  have  borrowed  1  have 
not  abused.  Some  large  sums  of  money  this  my  sweet  mistress 
Diamanto  hath  made  me  master  of,  which  I  knew  not  how  better 
to  employ  for  the  honor  of  my  country,  than  by  spending  it  muni- 
ficently under  your  name.  No  Englishman  would  I  have  renowned 
for  bounty,  magnificence  and  courtesy  but  you ;  under  your  colours 
all  my  meritorious  works  I  was  desirous  to  shroud.  Deem  it 
no  insolence  to  add  increase  to  your  fame.  Had  I  basely  and 
beggarly,  wanting  ability  to  support  any  part  of  your  royalty, 
undertook  the  estimation  of  this  high  calHng,  your  alledgment  of 
injury  had  been  the  greater,  and  my  defence  less  authorized.  It 
will  be  thought  but  a  poHcy  of  yours  thus  to  send  one  before  you 
who  being  a  follower  of  yours  shall  keep  and  uphold  the  estate 
and  part  of  an  Earl.  I  have  known  many  Earls  myself  that  in 
their  own  persons  would  go  very  plain,  but  delighted  to  have  one 
that  belonged  to  them  (being  loden  with  jewels,  apparelled  in 
cloth  of  gold,  and  all  the  rich  embroidery  that  might  be)  to  stand 
bareheaded  unto  them,  arguing  thus  much,  that  if  the  greatest 
men  went  not  more  sumptuous,  how  more  great  than  the  greatest 
was  he  that  could  command  one  going  so  sumptuous.  A  noble 
man's  glory  appeareth  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  the  pomp  of  his 
attendants.  What  is  the  glory  of  the  sun,  but  that  the  moon  and 
so  many  millions  of  stars  borrow  their  light  from  him.  If  you 
can  reprehend  me  of  any  one  illiberal  licentious  action  I  have 
disparaged  your  name  with,  heap  shame  on  me  prodigally.  I  be[, 
no  pardon  or  pity. 

Non  veniimt  in  idem  pudor  et  amor,  he  was  loth  to  detract 
from  one  that  he  loved  so.  Beholding  with  his  eyes  that  I  dipt 
not  the  wings  of  his  honor,  but  rather  increased  them  with  addi- 
tions of  expense,  he  entreated  me  as  if  I  had  been  an  ambas- 
sador, he  gave  me  his  hand  and  swore  he  had  no  more  hearts  but 
one,  and   I  should  have   half  of   it,  in  that  I  so  inhanced  his 


142  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

obscured  reputation.  One  thing,  quoth  he,  my  sweet  Jack  I 
will  entreat  thee  (it  shall  be  but  one)  that  tho'  I  am  well  pleased 
thou  shouldst  be  the  ape  of  my  birthright,  (as  what  noble  man 
hath  not  his  ape  and  his  fool)  yet  that  thou  be  an  ape  without  a 
clog,  not  carry  thy  courtesan  with  thee.  I  told  him  that  a  king 
could  do  nothing  without  his  treasury :  this  courtesan  was  my 
purse-bearer,  my  countenance  and  supporter.  My  earldom  I 
would  sooner  resign  than  part  with  such  a  special  benefactress. 
Resign  it  I  will  however,  since  I  am  thus  challenged  of  stolen 
goods  by  the  true  owner.  Lo  into  my  former  state  I  return  again  : 
poor  Jack  Wilton  and  your  servant  am  I,  as  I  was  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  so  will  I  persevere  to  my  live's  ending. 

That  theme  was  quickly  cut  off,  and  other  talk  entered  in 
place,  of  what  I  have  forgot,  but  talk  it  was,  and  talk  let  it  be, 
and  talk  it  shall  be,  for  I  do  not  mean  here  to  remember  it.  We 
supt,  we  got  to  bed,  we  rose  in  the  morning :  on  my  master  I 
waited,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  after  he  was  up,  he  went  and 
visited  the  house  where  his  Geraldine  was  borne,  at  sight  whereof 
he  was  so  impassioned,  that  in  the  open  street,  but  for  me,  he 
would  have  made  an  oration  in  praise  of  it.  Into  it  we  were  con- 
ducted, and  showed  each  several  room  thereto  appertaining.  O 
but  when  he  came  to  the  chamber  where  his  Geraldine's  clear 
sunbeams  first  thrust  themselves  into  this  cloud  of  flesh,  and 
acquainted  mortality  with  the  purity  of  angels,  then  did  his 
mouth  overflow  with  magnificats,  his  tongue  thrust  the  stars  out 
of  heaven,  and  eclipsed  the  sun  and  moon  with  comparisons. 
Geraldine  was  the  soul  of  heaven,  sole  daughter  and  heir  to 
primus  motor.  The  alchemy  of  his  eloquence,  out  of  the  incom- 
prehensible drossy  matter  of  clouds  and  air  distilled  no  more 
quintessence  than  would  make  Geraldine  complete  fair. 

In  praise  of  the  chamber  that  was  so  illuminatively  honored 
with  her  radiant  conception,  he  penned  this  sonnet :  — 

Fair  room,  the  presence  of  sweet  beauty's  pride, 
The  place  the  sun  upon  the  earth  did  hold, 
When  Phaeton  his  chariot  did  misguide ; 
The  toure  where  Jove  rained  down  himself  in  gold, 


JACK  WILTON.  ^  143 

Prostrate,  as  holy  ground  I  '11  worship  thee ; 
Our  lady's  chapel  henceforth  be  thou  named ; 
Here  first  love's  queen  put  on  mortality, 
And  with  her  beauty  all  the  world  inflamed. 
Heaven's  chambers  harboring  firy  cherubines, 
Are  not  with  thee  in  glory  to  compare; 
Lightning  it  is  not  light  which  in  thee  shines, 
None  enter  thee  but  straight  entranced  are. 
O  if  Elysium  be  above  the  ground. 
Then  here  it  is,  where  naught  but  joy  is  found. 

Many  other  poems  and  epigrams  in  that  chamber's  patient 
alabaster  enclosure  (which  her  melting  eyes  long  sithence  had 
softened)  were  curiously  engraved.  Diamonds  thot  themselves 
Dii  mundi,  if  they  might  but  carve  her  name  on  the  naked  glass. 
With  them  on  it  did  he  antagonize  those  body-wanting  mots, 

Dulce  puella  malum  est, 
Quod  fugit  ipse  sequor, 
Amor  est  mihi  causa  sequendi ; 
O  infelix  ego.     Cur  vidi,  cur  peril  1 
Non  patienter  amo. 
Tantum  patiatur  amori. 

After  the  view  of  these  Venerial  monuments,  he  published  a 
proud  challenge  in  the  Duke  of  Florence  court  against  all  commers, 
(whether  Christians,  Turks,  Cannibals,  Jews,  or  Saracens,)  in 
defence  of  his  Geraldine's  beauty.  More  mildly  was  it  accepted, 
in  that  she  whom  he  defended,  was  a  town  bom  child  of  that 
city,  or  else  the  pride  of  the  Italian  would  have  prevented  him 
ere  he  should  have  come  to  perform  it.  The  Duke  of  Florence 
nevertheless  sent  for  him,  and  demanded  him  of  his  estate,  and 
the  reason  that  drew  him  thereto,  which  when  he  was  advertised 
of  to  the  full,  he  granted  all  countries  whatsoever,  as  well  enemies 
and  outlaws,  as  friends  and  confederates,  free  access  and  regress 
into  his  dominions  unmolested,  until  that  insolent  trial  were 
ended. 

The  right  honorable  and  ever  renowned  Lord  Henry  Howard 
Earl  of  Surrey  my  singular  good  Lord  and  Master,  entered  the 
lists  after  this  order.     His  armor  was  all  intermixed  with  lillies 


144  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

and  roses,  and  the  bases  thereof  bordered  with  nettles  and  weeds 
signifying  strings,  crosses,  and  overgrowing  incumbrances  in  his 
love  ;  his  helmet  round  proportioned  like  a  gardener's  waterpot, 
from  which  seemed  to  issue  forth  small  threads  of  water  like  citern 
strings,  that  not  only  did  moisten  the  liUies  and  roses,  but  did 
fructify  as  well  the  nettles  and  weeds,  and  made  them  overgrow 
their  liege  lords.  Whereby  he  did  impart  this  much,  that  the 
tears  that  issued  from  his  brain,  as  those  artificial  distillations 
issued  from  the  well- counterfeit  water-pot  on  his  head,  watered 
and  gave  life  as  well  to  his  mistress  disdain  (resembled  to  nettles 
and  weeds)  as  increase  of  glory  to  her  care-causing  beauty  (com- 
prehended under  the  lilhes  and  roses.)  The  symbol  thereto 
annexed  was  this,  ex  lachrimis,  lachriina.  The  trappings  of  his 
horse  were  pounced  and  bolstered  out  with  rough  plumed  silver 
plush  in  full  jtfoportion  and  shape  of  an  estrich.^  On  the  breast  of 
the  horse  were  the  fore-parts  of  this  greedy  bird  advanced,  whence 
as  his  manner  is,  he  reached  out  his  long  neck  to  the  reins  of 
the  bridle,  thinking  that  they  had  been  iron,  and  still  seemed  to 
gape  after  the  golden  bit,  and  ever  as  the  courser  did  raise  or 
curvet,  to  have  swallowed  it  half  in.  His  wings,  which  he  never 
riseth  but  running,  being  spread  full  sail,  made  his  lusty  steed  as 
proud  under  him  as  he  had  been  some  other  Pegasus,  and  so 
quiveringly  and  tenderly  were  these  his  broad  wings  bound  to 
either  side  of  him,  that  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  tilt-yard  in 
his  majesty  ere  the  knights  were  entered,  they  seemed  wantonly 
to  fan  in  his  face  and  make  a  flickering  sound,  such  as  eagles 
do,  swiftly  pursuing  their  prey  in  the  air.  On  either  of  his  wings, 
as  the  estrich  hath  a  sharp  goad  or  prick  wherewith  he  spurreth 
himself  forward  in  his  sail-assisted  race,  so  this  artificial  estrich, 
on  the  inbent  knuckle  of  the  pinion  of  either  wing,  had  embossed 
crystal  eyes  affixed,  wherein  wheelwise  were  circularly  ingrafted 
sharp  pointed  diamonds,  as  rays  from  those  eyes  derived,  that 
like  the  rowels  of  a  spur  ran  deep  into  his  horse's  sides  and 
made  him  more  eager  in  his  course. 

Such  a  fine  dim  shine  did  these  crystal  eyes,  and  these  round 

1  Ostrich. 


^  JACK  WILTON-.  145 

enranked  diamonds  make  through  their  bolne  swelling  bowers  of 
feathers,  as  if  it  had  been  a  candle  in  a  paper  lantern,  or  a  glow- 
worm in  a  brush  by  night,  glistening  through  the  leaves  and 
briars.  The  tail  of  the  estrich  being  short  and  thick,  served  very 
fitly  as  a  plume  to  trick  up  his  horse-tail  with,  so  that  every  part 
of  him  was  as  naturally  coapted  as  might  be.  The  word  to  this 
device  was,  aculeo  alatus,  I  spread  my  wings  only  spurred  with 
her  eyes.  The  moral  of  the  whole  is  this,  that  as  the  estrich,  the 
most  burning  sighted  bird  of  all  others,  insomuch  as  the  female 
of  them  hatcheth  not  her  eggs  by  covering  them,  (but  by  the 
effectual  rays  of  her  eyes)  as  he,  I  say,  outstrippeth  the  nimblest 
trippers  of  his  feathered  condition  in  footmanship,  only  spurred 
on  with  the  needle  quickening  goad  under  his  side,  so  he  no  less 
burning  sighted  than  the  estrich,  spurred  on  to  the  race  of  honor 
by  the  sweet  rays  of  his  mistress  eyes,  persuaded  himself  he 
should  outstrip  all  other  in  running  to  the  goal  of  glory,  only 
animated  and  incited  by  her  excellence.  And  as  the  estrich  will 
eat  iron,  swallow  any  hard  metal  whatsoever,  so  would  he  refuse 
no  iron  adventure,  no  hard  task  whatsoever,  to  sit  in  the  grace  of 
so  fair  a  commander.  The  order  of  his  shield  was  this,  it  was 
framed  like  a  burning  glass  beset  round  with  flame  colored  feath- 
ers, on  the  outside  whereof  was  his  mistress  picture  adorned  as 
beautiful  as  art  could  portraiture  :  on  the  inside  a  naked  sword 
tied  in  a  true  love-knot,  the  mot,  militat  omnis  amans,  signifying 
that  in  a  true  love-knot  his  sword  was  tied  to  defend  and  main- 
tain the  high  features  of  his  mistress. 

Next  him  entered  the  black  knight,  whose  beaver  was  pointed 
all  torn  and  bloody,  as  though  he  had  new  come  from  combatting 
with  a  bear,  his  head  piece  seemed  to  be  a  little  oven  fraught  full 
with  smothering  flames,  for  nothing  but  sulphur  and  smoke  voided 
out  at  the  clefts  of  his  beaver.  His  bases  were  all  embordered 
with  snakes  and  adders,  engendered  of  the  abundance  of  inno- 
cent blood  that  was  shed.  His  horse's  trappings  were  through- 
out bespangled  with  honey  spots,  which  are  no  blemishes,  but 
ornaments.  On  his  shield  he  bore  the  sun  full  shining  on  a  dial 
at  his  going  down,  the  word  sufficet  tandem. 


146  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

[Then  follow  similar  descriptions  of  (i)  the  Knight  of  th^ 
Owl;  (2)  the  Knight  of  the  Flower-pot;  (3)  the  Forsaken 
Knight;  (4)  the  Knight  of  the  Storms;  (5)  the  Climbing 
Knight;  (6)  the  Knight  of  the  Earth ;  (7)  the  Infant  Knight, 
and  five  shields  also  described.] 

...  I  will  rehearse  no  more,  but  I  have  a  hundred  other :  let 
this  be  the  upshot  of  these  shewes,  they  were  the  admirablest  that 
ever  Florence  yielded.  To  particularize  their  manner  of  encoun- 
ter were  to  describe  the  whole  art  of  tilting.  Some  had  like  to 
have  fallen  over  their  horse's  neck  and  so  break  their  necks  in 
breaking  their  staves.  Others  ran  at  a  buckle  instead  of  a  button, 
and  peradventure  whetted  their  spears  points,  idly  gliding  on  their 
enemie's  sides,  but  did  no  other  harm.  Others  ran  across  at 
their  adversaries  left  elbow,  yea,  and  by  your  leave  sometimes  let 
not  the  lists  escape  scot-free,  they  were  so  eager.  Others  because 
they  would  be  sure  not  to  be  unsaddled  with  the  shock,  when 
they  came  to  the  spear  utmost  proof,  they  threw  it  over  the  right 
shoulder,  and  so  tilted  backward,  for  forward  they  durst  not. 
Another  had  a  monstrous  spite  at  the  pommell  of  his  rival's 
saddle,  and  thought  to  have  thrust  his  spear  twixt  his  legges 
without  raising  any  skin,  and  carried  him  clean  away  on  it  as  a 
cool  staff.  Another  held  his  spear  to  his  nose  or  his  nose  to  his 
spear,  as  though  he  had  been  discharging  a  caliver,  and  ran  at 
the  right  foot  of  his  fellow's  stead.  Only  the  Earl  of  Surrey 
my  master,  observed  the  true  measures  of  honor,  and  made  all 
his  encounterers  new  scour  their  armor  in  the  dust.  So  great  was 
his  glory  that  day,  as  Geraldine  was  thereby  eternally  glorified. 
Never  such  a  bountiful  master  came  amongst  the  heralds  (not  that 
he  did  enrich  them  with  any  plentiful  purse  largess)  but  that 
by  his  stern  assaults  he  titthed  them  more  rich  offals  of  bases,  of 
helmets,  of  armor,  than  the  rent  of  their  offices  came  to  in  ten 
years  before. 

What  would  you  have  more  ?  The  trumpets  proclaimed  him  mas- 
ter of  the  field,  the  trumpets  proclaimed  Geraldine  the  exception- 
less fairest  of  women.  Every  one  strived  to  magnify  him  more 
than  other.     The  Duke  of  Florence,  whose  name  (as  my  memory 


JACK  WILTON,  147 

serveth  me)  was  Paschal  de  Medices,  offered  him  such  large 
proffers  to  stay  with  him  as  it  were  incredible  to  report.  He 
would  not :  his  desire  was  as  he  had  done  in  Florence,  so  to  pro- 
ceed throughout  all  the  chief  cities  in  Italy.  If  you  ask  why  he 
began  not  this  at  Venice  first,  —  It  was  because  he  would  let 
Florence  his  mistress'  native  city  have  the  maidenhead  of  his 
chivalry.  As  he  came  back  again  he  thought  to  have  enacted 
something  there  worthy  the  annals  of  posterity,  but  he  was 
debarred  both  of  that  and  all  his  other  determinations :  for  con- 
tinuing in  feasting  and  banqueting  with  the  Duke  of  Florence 
and  the  Princes  of  Italy  there  assembled,  post-haste  letters 
came  to  him  from  the  king  his  master,  to  return  as  speedily 
as  he  could  possible  into  England,  whereby  his  fame  was  quite 
off  by  the  shins,  and  there  was  no  reprieve  but  Bazelus  manus^ 
he  must  into  England  j  and  I  with  my  courtezan  traveled  forward 
in  Italy. 


148  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 


VIII.     EUPHUISM. 

[The  following  brief  extracts  from  the  romance,  "  A  Margarite  of  America" 
(1596),  by  Thomas  Lodge,  are  offered  rather  as  examples  of  the  euphuistic 
style  of  composition,  tlian  in  illustration  of  the  merits  or  demerits  of  that 
particular  work.  The  comparisons  drawn  in  figures  borrowed  from  the 
fanciful  natural  science  of  that  day  are  as  characteristic  of  this  grotesque 
style  as  are  the  labored  antitheses  and  freaks  of  alliteration  to  which  allusion 
(page  27)  has  been  made  already.] 

Thou  art  born  a  prince,  which  being  a  benefit  sent  from  heaven, 
is  likewise  an  estate  subject  to  all  unhappiness  :  for,  whereas  much 
dirt  is,  thither  come  many  carrions ;  where  high  fortunes,  many 
flatterers ;  where  the  huge  cedar  grows,  the  thistle  springeth ; 
where  the  ford  is  deepest,  the  fish  are  plentiest;  and  whereas 
sovereignty  is,  there  are  many  seducers.  Be  thou,  therefore, 
wary  like  the  unicorne,  which,  for  fear  she  should  taste  poison 
toucheth  with  her  horn  before  she  lap  it  with  her  lip ;  so  seeme 
thou  in  faining  credit  to  those  who  mean  to  fawn  on  thee  in  thy 
error,  to  discover  them  in  their  sleights,  as  the  fowl  anthias  doth 
the  locust,  and  prevent  them  in  their  subtilties ;  as  the  fish  nibias 
doth  the  sea  dragon. 

Beautiful  Philenia,  if  I  knew  you  as  secret  as  you  are  sage,  I 
would  discover  that  to  you  in  words  which  I  cover  in  my  heart 
with  sighs.  If  it  be  love,  great  prince  (said  Philenia)  you 
may  commend  it  to  my  ear,  in  that  it  is  settled  in  this  heart ;  as 
for  silence,  it  is  lover's  science,  who  are  as  curious  to  conceal,  as 
cunning  to  conceive ;  and  as  hunters  carry  the  feather  of  an 
eagle  against  thunder,  so  lovers  bear  the  herb  therbis  in  their 
mouth,  which  hath  the  vertue  to  stay  the  tongue  from  discourse 
whilst  it  detaineth  the  heart  with  incredible  pleasure.  If  it  be  so, 
said  Arsadachus,  blushing  very  vehemently  (for  nature's  sparks  of 
hope  were  not  as  yet  altogether  ruinated ) ,  I  will  hold  ladies  weak- 
ness for  worth,  and  disclose  that  secret  which  I  thought  to  keep 


EUPHUISM.  149 

close.     And  what  is  that?  quoth  Philenia.     Love,  said  Arsada- 
chus ;  it  is  love,  and  there  he  paused. 

Here  Arsadachus  unable  to  endure  the  heat  of  affection,  or 
conceal  the  humor  that  restrained  him,  brake  of  her  discourse  in 
this  sort :  Ah  !  Philenia,  if  I  did  not  hope  that  as  the  hard  oak 
nourisheth  the  soft  silk-worm,  the  sharp  beech  bringeth  forth  the 
savoury  chestnut,  the  black  bdellium  sweet  gumm,  so  beautiful 
looks  concealed  pitiful  hearts,  I  would  surfeit  in  my  sorrows  to 
the  death  rather  than  satisfy  thee  in  my  discourse.  But  hoping 
of  thy  silence  (Philenia),  I  will  disclose  my  mind:  I  love 
Philenia ;  fair  Philenia,  I  love  thee  ! 


150  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 


IX.     MOLL   FLANDERS. 

["The  Fortunes  and  Misfortunes  of  the  Famous  Moll  Flanders"  were  re- 
corded by  Defoe  in  1721.  The  novel  deals  in  realistic  fashion  with  the  adven- 
tures of  a  woman  of  the  town  who  was  born  in  Newgate  and  reared  by  charity 
until  led  by  circumstances  to  turn  thief  ;  after  transportation  as  a  felon  to 
Virginia,  she  "grew  rich,  lived  honest,  and  died  a  penitent."  The  selection 
which  follows  includes  about  half  the  story  of  her  career  as  a  thief,  and  so 
far  as  it  goes  is  given  entire.  The  narrative  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of 
the  author,  its  most  prominent  qualities  being  the  careful  attention  to  detail 
and  the  fidelity  to  nature  which  together  impart  an  air  of  extreme  reality  to 
all  he  wrote.  In  the  progress  of  the  story,  Moll  Flanders  has  at  last  achieved 
an  honorable  marriage  which  puts  an  end  temporarily  to  all  her  troubles  :  at 
this  point  the  extract  begins.] 

Now  I  seemed  landed  in  a  safe  harbour,  after  the  stormy  voy- 
age of  life  past  was  at  an  end,  and  I  began  to  be  thankful  for  my 
deliverance  ;  I  sat  many  an  hour  by  myself,  and  wept  over  the 
remembrance  of  past  follies,  and  the  dreadful  extravagances  of  a 
wicked  life,  and  sometimes  I  flattered  myself  that  I  had  sincerely 
repented. 

But  there  are  temptations  which  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  human 
nature  to  resist,  and  few  know  what  would  be  their  case,  if  driven 
to  the  same  exigencies.  As  covetousness  is  the  root  of  all  evil,  so 
poverty  is  the  worst  of  all  snares  :  but  I  waive  that  discourse  till 
I  come  to  the  experiment. 

I  lived  with  this  husband  in  the  utmost  tranquillity ;  he  was  a 
quiet,  sensible,  sober  man ;  virtuous,  modest,  sincere,  and  in  his 
business  diligent  and  just :  his  business  was  in  a  narrow  compass, 
and  his  income  sufficient  to  a  plentiful  way  of  living  in  the  ordi- 
nary way ;  I  do  not  say  to  keep  an  equipage,  and  make  a  figure 
as  the  world  calls  it,  nor  did  I  expect  it,  or  desire  it ;  for  as 
I  abhorred  the  levity  and  extravagance  of  my  former  life,  so  I 
chose  now  to  live  retired,  frugal,  and  within  ourselves ;  I  kept  no 
company,  made  no  visits ;  minded  my  family,  and  obliged  my 
husband ;  and  this  kind  of  life  became  a  pleasure  to  me. 


MOLL   FLANDERS,  I51 

We  lived  in  an  uninterrupted  course  of  ease  and  content  for 
five  years,  when  a  sudden  blow  from  an  almost  invisible  hand, 
blasted  all  my  happiness,  and  turned  me  out  into  the  world  in  a 
condition  the  reverse  of  all  that  had  been  before  it. 

My  husband  having  trusted  one  of  his  fellow-clerks  with  a  sum 
of  money,  too  much  for  our  fortunes  to  bear  the  loss  of,  the  clerk 
failed,  and  the  loss  fell  very  heavy  on  my  husband ;  yet  it  was  not 
so  great,  but  that  if  he  had  had  courage  to  have  looked  his  mis- 
fortunes in  the  face,  his  credit  was  so  good,  that  as  I  told  him,  he 
would  easily  recover  it ;  for  to  sink  under  trouble  is  to  double  the 
weight,  and  he  that  will  die  in  it,  shall  die  in  it. 

It  was  in  vain  to  speak  comfortably  to  him,  the  wound  had 
sunk  too  deep,  it  was  a  stab  that  touched  the  vitals,  he  grew 
melancholy  and  disconsolate,  and  from  thence  lethargic,  and  died : 
I  foresaw  the  blow,  and  was  extremely  oppressed  in  my  mind,  for 
I  saw  evidently  that  if  he  died  I  was  undone. 

I  had  had  two  children  by  him,  and  no  more,  for  it  began  to 
be  time  for  me  to  leave  bearing  children,  for  I  was  now  eight-and- 
forty,  and  I  suppose  if  he  had  lived  I  should  have  had  no  more. 

I  was  now  left  in  a  dismal  and  disconsolate  case  indeed,  and  in 
several  things  worse  than  ever.  First,  it  was  past  the  flourishing 
time  with  me,  when.  I  might  expect  to  be  courted  for  a  mistress ; 
that  agreeable  part,  had  declined  some  time,  and  the  ruins  only 
appeared  of  what  had  been ;  and  that  which  was  worse  than  all 
was  this,  that  I  was  the  most  dejected,  disconsolate  creature  alive  ; 
I  that  had  encouraged  my  husband,  and  endeavoured  to  support  his 
spirits  under  his  trouble,  could  not  support  my  own ;  I  wanted 
that  spirit  in  trouble  which  I  told  him  was  so  necessary  for  bearing 
the  burthen. 

But  my  case  was  indeed  deplorable,  for  I  was  left  perfectly 
friendless  and  helpless,  and  the  loss  my  husband  had  sustained 
had  reduced  his  circumstances  so  low,  that  though  indeed  I  was 
not  in  debt,  yet  I  could  easily  foresee  that  what  was  left  would  not 
support  me  long ;  that  it  wasted  daily  for  subsistence,  so  that  it 
would  be  soon  all  spent,  and  then  I  saw  nothing  before  me  but  the 
utmost  distress,  and  this  represented  itself  so  lively  to  my  thoughts, 


152  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

that  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  come,  before  it  was  really  very  near ; 
also  my  very  apprehensions  doubled  the  misery,  for  I  fancied 
every  sixpence  that  I  paid  for  a  loaf  of  bread,  was  the  last  I  had 
in  the  world,  and  that  to-morrow  I  was  to  fast,  and  be  starved  to 
death. 

In  this  distress  I  had  no  assistant,  no  friend  to  comfort  or 
advise  me ;  I  sat  and  cried  and  tormented  myself  night  and  day ; 
wringing  my  hands,  and  sometimes  raving  like  a  distracted 
woman ;  and  indeed  I  have  often  wondered  it  had  not  affected 
my  reason,  for  I  had  the  vapours  to  such  a  degree,  that  my 
understanding  was  sometimes  quite  lost  in  fancies  and  imaginations. 

I  lived  two  years  in  this  dismal  condition,  wasting  that  little  I 
had,  weeping  continually  over  my  dismal  circumstances,  and  as  it 
were  only  bleeding  to  death,  without  the  least  hope  or  prospect  of 
help ;  and  now  I  had  cried  so  long,  and  so  often,  that  tears  were 
exhausted,  and  I  began  to  be  desperate,  for  I  grew  poor  apace. 

For  a  little  relief,  I  had  put  off  my  house  and  took  lodgings ; 
and  as  I  was  reducing  my  living,  so  I  sold  off  most  of  my  goods, 
which  put  a  little  money  in  my  pocket,  and  I  lived  near  a  year 
upon  that,  spending  very  sparingly,  and  ekeing  things  out  to  the 
utmost ;  but  still  when  I  looked  before  me,  my  heart  would  sink 
within  me  at  the  inevitable  approach  of  misery  and  want.  O  let 
none  read  this  part  without  seriously  reflecting  on  the  circum- 
stances of  a  desolate  state,  and  how  they  would  grapple  with 
want  of  friends  and  want  of  bread ;  it  will  certainly  make  them 
think  not  of  sparing  what  they  have  only,  but  of  looking  up  to 
heaven  for  support,  and  of  the  wise  man's  prayer.  Give  me  not 
poverty,  lest  I  steal. 

Let  them  remember  that  a  time  of  distress  is  a  time  of  dread- 
ful temptation,  and  all  the  strength  to  resist  is  taken  away ;  pov- 
erty presses,  the  soul  is  made  desperate  by  distress,  and  what  can 
be  done?  It  was  one  evening,  when  being  brought,  as  I  may 
say,  to  the  last  gasp,  I  think  I  may  truly  say  I  was  distracted  and 
raving,  when  prompted  by  I  know  not  what  spirit,  and  as  it  were, 
doing  I  did  not  know  what,  or  why,  I  dressed  me  (for  I  had  still 
pretty  good  clothes) ,  and  went  out :  I  am  very  sure  I  had  no 


MOLL   FLANDERS,  1 53 

manner  of  design  in  my  head,  when  I  went  out ;  I  neither  knew, 
or  considered  where  to  go,  or  on  what  business ;  but  as  the  devil 
carried  me  out,  and  laid  his  bait  for  me,  so  he  brought  me  to  be 
sure  to  the  place,  for  I  knew  not  whither  I  was  going,  or  what 
I  did. 

Wandering  thus  about,  I  knew  not  whither,  I  passed  by  an 
apothecary's  shop  in  Leadenhall-street,  where  I  saw  lie  on  a 
stool  just  before  the  counter  a  little  bundle  wrapt  in  a  white  cloth ; 
beyond  it  stood  a  maid-servant  with  her  back  to  it,  looking  up 
towards  the  top  of  the  shop,  where  the  apothecary's  apprentice, 
as  I  suppose,  was  standing  upon  the  counter,  with  his  back  also 
to  the  door,  and  a  candle  in  his  hand,  looking  and  reaching  up 
to  the  upper  shelf,  for  something  he  wanted,  so  that  both  were 
engaged,  and  nobody  else  in  the  shop. 

This  was  the  bait ;  and  the  devil  who  laid  the  snare  prompted 
me,  as  if  he  had  spoke,  for  I  remember,  and  shall  never  forget  it, 
'twas  Uke  a  voice  spoken  over  my  shoulder.  Take  the  bundle ;  be 
quick ;  do  it  this  moment.  It  was  no  sooner  said  but  I  stepped 
into  the  shop,  and  with  my  back  to  the  wench,  as  if  I  had  stood 
up  for  a  cart  that  was  going  by,  I  put  my  hand  behind  me  and 
took  the  bundle,  and  went  off  with  it,  the  maid  or  fellow  not 
perceiving  me,  or  any  one  else. 

It  is  impossible  to  express  the  horror  of  my  soul  all  the  while 
I  did  it.  When  I  went  away  I  had  no  heart  to  run,  or  scarce  to 
mend  my  pace  :  I  crossed  the  street  indeed,  and  went  down  the 
first  turning  I  came  to,  and  I  think  it  was  a  street  that  went 
through  into  Fenchurch-street ;  from  thence  I  crossed  and  turned 
through  so  many  ways  and  turnings,  that  I  could  never  tell  which 
way  it  was,  nor  where  I  went;  I  felt  not  the  ground  I  stept 
on,  and  the  farther  I  was  out  of  danger,  the  faster  I  went,  till 
tired  and  out  of  breath,  I  was  forced  to  sit  down  on  a  little 
bench  at  a  door,  and  then  found  I  was  got  into  Thames-street, 
near  Billingsgate  :  I  rested  me  a  little  and  went  on ;  my  blood 
was  all  in  a  fire,  my  heart  beat  as  if  I  was  in  a  sudden  fright : 
in  short,  I  was  under  such  a  surprise  that  I  knew  not  whither 
I   was  agoing,  or  what  to  do. 


154  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

After  I  had  tired  myself  thus  with  walking  a  long  way  about, 
and  so  eagerly,  I  began  to  consider,  and  make  home  to  my 
lodging,  where  I  came  about  nine  o'clock  at  night. 

What  the  bundle  was  made  up  for,  or  on  what  occasion  laid 
where  I  found  it,  I  knew  not,  but  when  I  came  to  open  it,  1 
found  there  was  a  suit  of  childbed-Hnen  in  it,  very  good,  and 
almost  new,  the  lace  very  fine  \  there  was  a  silver  porringer  of  a 
pint,  a  small  silver  mug,  and  six  spoons,  with  some  other  linen, 
a  good  smock,  and  three  silk  handkerchiefs,  and  in  the  mug  a 
paper,  iSj".  6^.  in  money. 

All  the  while  I  was  opening  these  things  I  was  under  such 
dreadful  impressions  of  fear,  and  in  such  terror  of  mind,  though 
I  was  perfectly  safe,  that  I  cannot  express  the  manner  of  it ;  I 
sat  me  down,  and  cried  most  vehemently ;  Lord,  said  I,  what  am 
I  now?  a  thief!  why,  I  shall  be  taken  next  time,  and  be  carried 
to  Newgate,  and  be  tried  for  my  life  !  and  with  that  I  cried  again 
a  long  time,  and  I  am  sure,  as  poor  as  I  was,  if  I  had  durst  for 
fear,  I  would  certainly  have  carried  the  things  back  again ;  but 
that  went  off  after  a  while.  Well,  I  went  to  bed  for  that  night, 
but  slept  little,  the  horror  of  the  fact  was  upon  my  mind,  and  I 
knew  not  what  I  said  or  did  all  night,  and  all  the  next  day.  Then 
I  was  impatient  to  hear  some  news  of  the  loss ;  and  would  fain 
know  how  it  was,  whether  they  were  a  poor  body's  goods,  or  a 
rich ;  perhaps,  said  I,  it  may  be  some  poor  widow  like  me,  that 
had  packed  up  these  goods  to  go  and  sell  them  for  a  litde  bread 
for  herself  and  a  poor  child,  and  are  now  starving  and  breaking 
their  hearts,  for  want  of  that  little  they  would  have  fetched ;  and 
this  thought  tormented  me  worse  than  all  the  rest,  for  three  or 
four  days. 

But  my  own  distresses  silenced  all  these  reflections,  and  the 
prospect  of  my  own  starving,  which  grew  every  day  more  frightful 
to  me,  hardened  my  heart  by  degrees.  It  was  then  particularly 
heavy  upon  my  mind,  that  I  had  been  reformed,  and  had,  as  I 
hoped,  repented  of  all  my  past  wickedness ;  that  I  had  lived  a 
sober,  grave,  retired  life  for  several  years,  but  now  I  should  be 
driven  by  the  dreadful  necessity  of  my  circumstances  to  the  gates 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  1 55 

of  destruction,  soul  and  body ;  and  two  or  three  times  I  fell  upon 
my  knees,  praying  to  God,  as  well  as  I  could,  for  deliverance ;  but 
I  cannot  but  say,  my  prayers  had  no  hope  in  them  :  I  knew  not 
what  to  do,  it  was  all  fear  without,  and  dark  within ;  and  I  re- 
flected on  my  past  life  as  not  repented  of.  that  heaven  was  now 
beginning  to  punish  me,  and  would  make  me  as  miserable  as  I 
had  been  wicked. 

Had  I  gone  on  here  I  had  perhaps  been  a  true  penitent ;  but 
I  had  an  evil  counsellor  within,  and  he  was  continually  prompting 
me  to  relieve  myself  by  the  worst  means ;  so  one  evening  he 
tempted  me  again  by  the  same  wicked  impulse  that  had  said,  take 
that  bundle,  to  go  out  again  and  seek  for  what  might  happen. 

I  went  out  now  by  daylight,  and  wandered  about  I  knew  not 
whither,  and  in  search  of  I  knew  not  what,  when  the  devil  put  a 
snare  in  my  way  of  a  dreadful  nature  indeed,  and  such  a  one  as  I 
have  never  had  before  or  since.  Going  through  Aldersgate- street, 
there  was  a  pretty  little  child  had  been  at  a  dancing- school,  and 
was  agoing  home  all  alone ;  and  my  prompter,  like  a  true  devil, 
set  me  upon  this  innocent  creature.  I  talked  to  it,  and  it  prattled 
to  me  again,  and  I  took  it  by  the  hand  and  led  it  along  till  I  came 
to  a  paved  alley  that  goes  into  Bartholomew-close,  and  I  led  it  in 
there ;  the  child  said,  that  was  not  its  way  home ;  I  said.  Yes, 
my  dear,  it  is,  I'll  show  you  the  way  home ;  the  child  had  a  little 
necklace  on  of  gold  beads,  and  I  had  my  eye  upon  that,  and  in 
the  dark  of  the  alley  I  stooped,  pretending  to  mend  the  child's 
clog  that  was  loose,  and  took  off  her  necklace  and  the  child  never 
felt  it,  and  so  led  the  child  on  again.  Here,  I  say,  the  devil  put 
me  upon  killing  the  child  in  the  dark  alley,  that  it  might  not  cry, 
but  the  very  thought  frighted  me  so  that  I  was  ready  to  drop 
down ;  but  I  turned  the  child  about  and  bade  it  go  back  again, 
for  that  was  not  its  way  home ;  the  child  said,  so  she  would,  and 
I  went  through  into  Bartholomew-close,  and  then  turned  round  to 
another  passage  that  goes  into  Long-lane,  so  away  into  Charter- 
house-yard, and  out  into  St.  John's-street ;  then  crossing  into 
Smithfield,  went  down  Chick-lane,  and  into  Field-lane,  to  Hol- 
born-bridge,  when  mixing  with  the  crowd  of  people  usually  passing 


IS6  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

there,  it  was  not  possible  to  have  been  found  out  j  and  thus  I 
made  my  second  sally  into  the  world. 

The  thoughts  of  this  booty  put  out  all  the  thoughts  of  the  first, 
and  the  reflections  I  had  made  wore  quickly  off;  poverty  hard- 
ened my  heart,  and  my  own  necessities  made  me  regardless  of 
anything.  The  last  affair  left  no  great  concern  upon  me,  for  as  I 
did  the  poor  child  no  harm,  I  only  thought  I  had  given  the  par- 
ents a  just  reproof  for  their  negligence,  in  leaving  the  poor  lamb 
to  come  home  by  itself,  and  it  would  teach  them  to  take  more 
care  another  time. 

This  string  of  beads  was  worth  about  12/.  or  14/.  I  suppose  it 
might  have  been  formerly  the  mother's,  for  it  was  too  big  for  the 
child's  wear,  but  that,  perhaps,  the  vanity  of  the  mother  to  have 
her  child  look  fine  at  the  dancing-school,  had  made  her  let  the 
child  wear  it,  and  no  doubt  the  child  had  a  maid  sent  to  take  care 
of  it,  but  she,  like  a  careless  jade,  was  taken  up  perhaps  with 
some  fellow  that  had  met  her,  and  so  the  poor  baby  wandered  till 
it  fell  into  my  hands. 

However,  I  did  the  child  no  harm ;  I  did  not  so  much  as  fright 
it,  for  I  had  a  great  many  tender  thoughts  about  me  yet,  and  did 
nothing  but  what,  as  I  may  say,  mere  necessity  drove  me  to. 

I 'had  a  great  many  adventures  after  this,  but  I  was  young  in  the 
business,  and  did  not  know  how  to  manage,  otherwise  than  as  the 
devil  put  things  into  my  head  ;  and  indeed  he  was  seldom  backward 
to  me.  One  adventure  I  had  which  was  very  lucky  to  me  ;  I  was 
Agoing  through  Lombard-street,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  just  by 
the  end  of  Three  King-court,  when  on  a  sudden  comes  a  fellow 
running  by  me  as  swift  as  lightning,  and  throws  a  bundle  that  was 
in  his  hand  just  behind  me,  as  I  stood  up  against  the  corner  of  the 
house  at  the  turning  into  the  alley ;  just  as  he  threw  it  in,  he  said, 
God  bless  you,  mistress,  let  it  lie  there  a  little,  and  away  he  runs  : 
after  him  comes  two  more,  and  immediately  a  young  fellow  with- 
out his  hat,  crying.  Stop  thief;  they  pursued  the  two  last  fellows 
so  close,  that  they  were  forced  to  drop  what  they  had  got,  and  one 
of  them  was  taken  into  the  bargain ;  the  other  got  off  free. 

I  stood  stockstill  all  this  while,  till  they  came  back  dragging 


MOLL   FLANDERS, 


157 


the  poor  fellow  they  had  taken,  and  lugging  the  things  they  had 
found,  extremely  well  satisfied  that  they  had  recovered  the 
booty,  and  taken  the  thief;  and  thus  they  passed  by  me,  for  I 
looked  only  like  one  who  stood  up  while  the  crowd  was  gone. 

Once  or  twice  I  asked  what  was  the  matter,  but  the  people 
neglected  answering  me,  and  I  was  not  very  importunate ;  but 
after  the  crowd  was  wholly  passed,  I  took  my  opportunity  to  turn 
about  and  take  up  what  was  behind  me  and  walk  away :  this 
indeed  I  did  with  less  disturbance  than  I  had  done  formerly,  for 
these  things  I  did  not  steal,  but  they  were  stolen  to  my  hand.  I 
got  safe  to  my  lodgings  with  this  cargo,  which  was  a  piece  of  fine 
black  lustring  silk,  and  a  piece  of  velvet ;  the  latter  was  but  part 
of  a  piece  of  about  eleven  yards ;  the  former  was  a  whole  piece 
of  near  fifty  yards  \  it  seems  it  was  a  mercer's  shop  that  they  had 
rifled ;  I  say  rifled,  because  the  goods  were  so  considerable  that 
they  had  lost;  for  the  goods  that  they  recovered  were  pretty 
many,  and  I  believe  came  to  about  six  or  seven  several  pieces  of 
silk  :  how  they  came  to  get  so  many  I  could  not  tell ;  but  as 
I  had  only  robbed  the  thief,  I  made  no  scruple  at  taking  these 
goods,  and  being  very  glad  of  them  too. 

I  had  pretty  good  luck  thus  far,  and  I  made  several  adventures 
more,  though  with  but  small  purchase,  yet  with  good  success,  but 
I  went  in  daily  dread  that  some  mischief  would  befall  me,  and 
that  I  should  certainly  come  to  be  hanged  at  last.  The  impres- 
sion this  made  on  me  was  too  strong  to  be  slighted,  and  it  kept 
me  from  making  attempts,  that  for  aught  I  knew,  might  have 
been  very  safely  performed ;  but  one  thing  I  cannot  omit,  which 
was  a  bait  to  me  many  a  day.  I  walked  frequently  out  into  the 
villages  round  the  town  to  see  if  nothing  would  fall  in  my  way. 
there ;  and  going  by  a  house  near  Stepney,  I  saw  on  the  window- 
board  two  rings,  one  a  small  diamond  ring,  and  the  other  a  plain 
gold  ring,  to  be  sure  laid  there  by  some  thoughtless  lady,  that  had 
more  money  than  forecast,  perhaps  only  till  she  washed  her 
hands. 

I  walked  several  times  by  the  window  to  observe  if  I  could  see 
whether  there  was  anybody  in  the  room  or  no,  and  I  could  see 


IS8  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

nobody,  but  still  I  was  not  sure ;  it  came  presently  into  my 
thoughts  to  rap  at  the  glass,  as  if  I  wanted  to  speak  with  some- 
body and  if  anybody  was  there  they  would  be  sure  to  come  to  the 
window,  and  then  I  would  tell  them  to  remove  those  rings,  for 
that  I  had  seen  two  suspicious  fellows  take  notice  of  them.  This 
was  a  ready  thought ;  I  rapt  once  or  twice,  and  nobody  came, 
when  I  thrust  hard  against  the  square  of  glass,  and  broke  it  with 
little  noise,  and  took  out  the  two  rings,  and  walked  away;  the 
diamond  ring  was  worth  about  3/.,  and  the  other  about  95-. 

I  was  now  at  a  loss  for  a  market  for  my  goods,  and  especially 
for  my  two  pieces  of  silk.  I  was  very  loath  to  dispose  of  them 
for  a  trifle,  as  the  poor  unhappy  thieves  in  general  do,  who  after 
they  have  ventured  their  lives  for  perhaps  a  thing  of  value,  are 
forced  to  sell  it  for  a  song  when  they  have  done ;  but  I  was 
resolved  I  would  not  do  thus,  whatever  shift  I  made ;  however,  I 
did  not  well  know  what  course  to  take.  At  last  I  resolved  to  go 
to  my  old  governess,  and  acquaint  myself  with  her  again ;  I  had 
punctually  suppUed  the  5/.  a  year  to  her  for  my  little  boy  as  long 
as  I  was  able  ;  but  at  last  was  obliged  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  How- 
ever, I  had  written  a  letter  to  her,  wherein  I  had  told  her  that  my 
circumstances  were  reduced ;  that  I  had  lost  my  husband,  and 
that  I  was  not  able  to  do  it  any  longer,  and  begged  the  poor 
child  might  not  suffer  too  much  for  its  mother's  misfortunes. 

I  now  made  her  a  visit,  and  I  found  that  she  drove  something 
of  the  old  trade  still,  but  that  she  was  not  in  such  flourishing 
circumstances  as  before  ;  for  she  had  been  sued  by  a  certain 
gentleman,  who  had  had  his  daughter  stolen  from  him,  and  who 
it  seems  she  had  helped  to  convey  away ;  and  it  was  very  nar- 
rowly that  she  escaped  the  gallows.  The  expense  also  had 
ravaged  her,  so  that  her  house  was  but  meanly  furnished,  and  she 
was  not  in  such  repute  for  her  practice  as  before ;  however,  she 
stood  upon  her  legs,  as  they  say,  and  as  she  was  a  bustling 
woman,  and  had  some  stock  left,  she  was  turned  pawnbroker,  and 
lived  pretty  well. 

She  received  me  very  civilly,  and  with  her  usual  obliging 
manner  told  me  she  would  not  have  the  less   respect  for  me 


MOLL  FLANDERS.  1 59 

for  my  being  reduced;  that  she  had  taken  care  my  boy  was 
very  well  looked  after,  though  I  could  not  pay  for  him,  and  that 
the  woman  that  had  him  was  easy,  so  that  I  needed  not  to  trouble 
myself  about  him,  till  I  might  be  better  able  to  do  it  effectually. 

I  told  her  I  had  not  much  money  left,  but  that  I  had  some 
things  that  were  money's  worth,  if  she  could  tell  me  how  I  might 
turn  them  into  money.  She  asked  what  it  was  I  had  ?  I  pulled 
out  the  string  of  gold  beads,  and  told  her  it  was  one  of  my  hus- 
band's presents  to  me ;  then  I  showed  her  the  two  parcels  of  silk 
which  I  told  her  I  had  from  Ireland,  and  brought  up  to  town  with 
me  :  and  the  litde  diamond  ring.  As  to  the  small  parcel  of  plate 
and  spoons,  I  had  found  means  to  dispose  of  them  myself  before  ; 
and  as  for  the  childbed-linen  I  had,  she  offered  me  to  take  it  her- 
self, believing  it  to  have  been  my  own.  She  told  me  that  she 
was  turned  pawnbroker,  and  that  she  would  sell  those  things  for 
me  as  pawned  to  her,  and  so  she  sent  presently  for  proper  agents 
that  bought  them,  being  in  her  hands,  without  any  scruple,  and 
gave  good  prices  too. 

I  now  began  to  think  this  necessary  woman  might  help  me  a 
little  in  my  low  condition  to  some  business ;  for  I  would  gladly 
have  turned  my  hand  to  any  honest  employment  if  I  could 
have  got  it;  but  honest  business  did  not  come  within  her 
reach.  If  I  had  been  younger,  perhaps  she  might  have  helped 
me,  but  my  thoughts  were  off  of  that  kind  of  livelihood,  as  being 
quite  out  of  the  way  after  fifty,  which  was  my  case,  and  so  I  told 
her. 

She  invited  me  at  last  to  come,  and  be  at  her  house  till  I  could 
find  something  to  do,  and  it  should  cost  me  very  little,  and  this  I 
gladly  accepted  of;  and  now  living  a  little  easier,  I  entered  into 
some  measures  to  have  my  little  son  by  my  last  husband  taken 
off;  and  this  she  made  easy  too,  reserving  a  payment  only  of 
5/.  a  year,  if  I  could  pay  it.  This  was  such  a  help  to  me,  that 
for  a  good  while  I  left  off  the  wicked  trade  that  I  had  so  newly 
taken  up ;  and  gladly  I  would  have  got  work,  but  that  was  very 
hard  to  do  for  one  that  had  no  acquaintance. 

However,  at  last  I  got  some  quilting  work  for  ladies'  beds, 


l60  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

petticoats,  and  the  like ;  and  this  I  liked  very  well,  and  worked 
very  hard,  and  with  this  I  began  to  live ;  but  the  diligent  devil 
who  resolved  I  should  continue  in  his  service,  continually  prompted 
me  to  go  out  and  take  a  walk,  that  is  to  say,  to  see  if  anything 
-  would  offer  in  the  old  way. 

One  evening  I  blindly  obeyed  his  summons,  and  fetched  a  long 
circuit  through  the  streets,  but  met  with  no  purchase ;  but  not 
content  with  that,  I  went  out  the  next  evening  too,  when  going 
by  an  alehouse  I  saw  the  door  of  a  little  room  open,  next  the 
very  street,  and  on  the  table  a  silver  tankard,  things  much  in  use 
in  public-houses  at  that  time ;  it  seems  some  company  had  been 
drinking  there,  and  the  careless  boys  had  forgot  to  take  it  away. 

I  went  into  the  box  frankly,  and  setting  the  silver  tankard  on 
the  corner  of  the  bench,  I  sat  down  before  it,  and  knocked  with 
my  foot ;  a  boy  came  presently,  and  I  bade  him  fetch  me  a  pint 
of  warm  ale,  for  it  was  cold  weather ;  the  boy  ran,  and  I  heard 
him  go  down  the  cellar  to  draw  the  ale  ;  while  the  boy  was  gone, 
another  boy  came,  and  cried,  D'ye  call?  I  spoke  with  a  melan- 
choly air,  and  said,  No,  the  boy  is  gone  for  a  pint  of  ale  for  me. 

While  I  sat  here,  I  heard  the  woman  in  the  bar  say.  Are  they 
all  gone  in  the  five  ?  which  was  the  box  I  sat  in,  and  the  boy  said, 
yes.  Who  fetched  the  tankard  away?  says  the  woman.  I  did, 
says  another  boy,  that 's  it,  pointing  it  seems  to  another  tankard, 
which  he  had  fetched  from  another  box  by  mistake;  .or  else  it 
must  be,  that  the  rogue  forgot  that  he  had  not  brought  it  in, 
which  certainly  he  had  not. 

I  heard  all  this  much  to  my  satisfaction,  for  I  found  plainly 
that  the  tankard  was  not  missed,  and  yet  they  concluded  it  was 
fetched  away :  so  I  drank  my  ale,  called  to  pay,  and  as  I  went 
away,  I  said.  Take  care  of  your  plate,  child,  meaning  a  silver 
pint  mug  which  he  brought  me  to  drink  in  :  the  boy  said.  Yes 
madam,  very  welcome,  and  away  I  came. 

I  came  home  to  my  governess,  and  now  I  thought  it  was  a 
time  to  try  her,  that  if  I  might  be  put  to  the  necessity  of  being 
exposed  she  might  offer  me  some  assistance.  When  I  had  been 
at  home  some  time,  and  had  an  opportunity  of  talking  to  her,  I 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  l6l 

told  her  I  had  a  secret  of  the  greatest  consequence  in  the  world 
to  commit  to  her,  if  she  had  respect  enough  for  me  to  keep  it  a 
secret :  she  told  me  she  had  kept  one  of  my  secrets  faithfully ; 
why  should  I  doubt  her  keeping  another  ?  I  told  her  the  strangest 
thing  in  the  world  had  befallen  me,  even  without  any  design ;  and 
so  told  her  the  whole  story  of  the  tankard.  And  have  you 
brought  it  away  with  you,  my  dear?  says  she.  To  be  sure  I 
have,  says  I,  and  showed  it  her.  But  what  shall  I  do  now,  says 
I,  must  not  I  carry  it  again  ? 

Carry  it  again  !  says  she ;  Ay,  if  you  want  to  go  to  Newgate. 
Why,  says  I,  they  can't  be  so  base  to  stop  me,  when  I  carry  it  to 
them  again?  You  don't  know  those  sort  of  people,  child,  says 
she ;  they  '11  not  only  carry  you  to  Newgate,  but  hang  you  too, 
without  any  regard  to  the  honesty  of  returning  it ;  or  bring  in  an 
account  of  all  the  other  tankards  as  they  have  lost,  for  you  to  pay 
for.  What  must  I  do  then?  says  I.  Nay,  says  she,  as  you  have 
played  the  cunning  part  and  stole  it,  you  must  e'en  keep  it, 
there  's  no  going  back  now ;  besides  child,  says  she,  Don't  you 
want  it  more  than  they  do?  I  wish  you  could  light  of  such  a 
bargain  once  a  week. 

This  gave  me  a  new  notion  of  my  governess,  and  that  since  she 
was  turned  pawnbroker,  she  had  a  sort  of  people  about  her  that 
were  none  of  the  honest  ones  that  I  had  met  with  there  before. 

I  had  not  been  long  there  but  I  discovered  it  more  plainly 
than  before,  for  every  now  and  then  I  saw  hilts  of  swords,  spoons, 
forks,  tankards,  and  all  such  kind  of  ware  brought  in,  not  to  be 
pawned,  but  to  be  sold  downright ;  and  she  bought  them  all  with- 
out asking  any  questions,  but  had  good  bargains,  as  I  found  by 
her  discourse. 

I  found  also  that  in  following  this  trade  she  always  melted  down 
the  plate  she  bought,  that  it  might  not  be  challenged ;  and  she 
came  to  me  and  told  me  one  morning  that  she  was  going  to  melt, 
and  if  I  would,  she  would  put  my  tankard  in,  that  it  might  not  be 
seen  by  anybody ;  I  told  her  with  all  my  heart ;  so  she  weighed 
it,  and  allowed  me  the  full  value  in  silver  again ;  but  I  found  she 
did  not  do  so  to  the  rest  of  her  customers. 

II 


1 62  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

Some  time  after  this,  as  I  was  at  work,  and  very  melancholy, 
she  begins  to  ask  me  what  the  matter  was?  I  told  her  my  heart 
was  very  heavy,  I  had  little  work  and  nothing  to  live  on,  and 
knew  not  what  course  to  take.  She  laughed,  and  told  me  I  must 
go  out  again  and  try  my  fortune ;  it  might  be  that  I  might  meet 
with  another  piece  of  plate.  O,  mother  !  says  I,  that  is  a  trade 
that  1  have  no  skill  in,  and  if  I  should  be  taken  I  am  undone  at 
once.  Says  she,  I  could  help  you  to  a  schoolmistress,  that  shall 
make  you  as  dexterous  as  herself;  I  trembled  at  that  proposal, 
for  hitherto  I  had  had  no  confederates  nor  any  acquaintance  among 
that  tribe.  But  she  conquered  all  my  modesty,  and  all  my  fears ; 
and  in  a  little  time,  by  the  help  of  this  confederate,  I  grew  as 
impudent  a  thief,  and  as  dexterous,  as  ever  Moll  Cutpurse  was, 
though,  if  fame  does  not  behe  her,  not  half  so  handsome. 

The  comrade  she  helped  me  to,  dealt  in  three  sorts  of  craft ; 
viz.,  shoplifting,  stealing  of  shop-books  and  pocket-books,  and 
taking  off  gold  watches  from  the  ladies'  sides ;  and  this  last  she 
did  so  dexterously  that  no  woman  ever  arrived  to  the  perfection 
of  that  art,  like  her.  I  liked  the  first  and  the  last  of  these  things 
very  well,  and  I  attended  her  some  time  in  the  practice,  just  as 
a  deputy  attends  a  midwife,  without  any  pay. 

At  length  she  put  me  to  practice.  She  had  shown  me  her  art, 
and  I  had  several  times  unhooked  a  watch  from  her  own  side 
with  great  dexterity ;  at  last  she  showed  me  a  prize,  and  this  was 
a  young  lady  with  child,  who  had  a  charming  watch.  The  thing 
was  to  be  done  as  she  came  out  of  the  church ;  she  goes  on  one 
side  of  the  lady,  and  pretends,  just  as  she  came  to  the  steps,  to  fall, 
and  fell  against  the  lady  with  so  much  violence  as  put  her  into 
a  great  fright,  and  both  cried  out  terribly :  in  the  very  moment 
that  she  jostled  the  lady,  I  had  hold  of  the  watch,  and  holding  it 
the  right  way,  the  start  she  gave  drew  the  hook  out  and  she  never 
felt  it ;  I  made  off  immediately,  and  left  my  schoolmistress  to  come 
out  of  her  fright  gradually,  and  the  lady  too  ;  and  presently  the 
watch  was  missed  ;  Ay,  says  my  comrade,  then  it  was  those  rogues 
that  thrust  me  down,  I  warrant  ye ;  I  wonder  the  gentlewoman 
did  not  miss  her  watch  before,  then  we  might  have  taken  them. 


MOLL  FLANDERS.  1 63 

She  humoured  the  thing  so  well  that  nobody  suspected  her,  and 
I  was  got  home  a  full  hour  before  her.  This  was  my  first  adven- 
ture in  company ;  the  watch  was  indeed  a  very  fine  one,  and  had 
many  trinkets  about  it,  and  my  governess  allowed  us  20/.  for  it, 
of  which  I  had  half.  And  thus  I  was  entered  a  complete  thief, 
hardened  to  a  pitch  above  all  the  reflections  of  conscience  or 
modesty,  and  to  a  degree  which  I  never  thought  possible  in  me. 

Thus  the  devil,  who  began,  by  the  help  of  an  irresistible  poverty, 
to  push  me  into  this  wickedness,  brought  me  to  a  height  beyond 
the  common  rate,  even  when  my  necessities  were  not  so  terrify- 
ing ;  for  I  had  now  got  into  a  Httle  vein  of  work,  and  as  I  was 
not  at  a  loss  to  handle  my  needle,  it  was  very  probable  I 
might  have  got  my  bread  honestly  enough. 

I  must  say,  that  if  such  a  prospect  of  work  had  presented  itself 
at  first,  when  I  began  to  feel  the  approach  of  my  miserable  cir- 
cumstances ;  I  say,  had  such  a  prospect  of  getting  bread  by  working 
presented  itself  then,  I  had  never  fallen  into  this  wicked  trade,  or 
into  such  a  wicked  gang  as  I  was  now  embarked  with ;  but  practice 
had  hardened  me,  and  I  grew  audacious  to  the  last  degree ;  and 
the  more  so,  because  I  had  carried  it  on  so  long,  and  had  never 
been  taken ;  for  in  a  word,  my  new  partner  in  wickedness  and  I 
went  on  together  so  long,  without  being  ever  detected,  that  we 
not  only  grew  bold,  but  we  grew  rich,  and  we  had  at  one  time 
one-and-twenty  gold  watches  in  our  hands. 

I  remember  that  one  day  being  a  little  more  serious  than  ordi- 
nary, and  finding  I  had  so  good  a  stock  beforehand,  as  I  had, 
for  I  had  near  200/.  in  money  for  my  share ;  it  came  strongly  into 
my  mind,  no  doubt  from  some  kind  spirit,  if  such  there  be,  that  as 
at  first  poverty  excited  me,  and  my  distresses  drove  me  to  these 
dreadful  shifts,  so  seeing  those  distresses  were  now  relieved,  and 
I  could  also  get  something  towards  a  maintenance  by  working,  and 
had  so  good  a  bank  to  support  me,  why  should  I  not  now  leave 
off,  while  I  was  well ;  that  I  could  not  expect  to  go  always  free ;  and 
if  I  was  once  surprised,  I  was  undone. 

This  was  doubtless  the  happy  minute,  when,  if  I  had  hearkened 
to  the  blessed  hint,  from  whatsoever  hand  it  came,  I  had  still  a 


164  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

cast  for  an  easy  life.  But  my  fate  was  otherwise  determined ; 
the  busy  devil  that  drew  me  in,  had  too  fast  hold  of  me  to  let  me 
go  back ;  but  as  poverty  brought  me  in,  so  avarice  kept  me  in,  till 
there  was  no  going  back ;  as  to  the  arguments  which  my  reason 
dictated  for  persuading  me  to  lay  down,  avarice  stept  in  and  said, 
Go  on,  you  have  had  very  good  luck,  go  on  till  you  have  gotten 
four  or  five  hundred  pounds,  and  then  you  shall  leave  off,  and 
then  you  may  live  easy  without  working  at  all. 

Thus  I  that  was  once  in  the  devil's  clutches,  was  held  fast  there 
as  with  a  charm,  and  had  no  power  to  go  without  the  circle,  till  I 
was  ingulfed  in  labyrinths  of  trouble  too  great  to  get  out  at  all. 

However,  these  thoughts  left  some  impression  upon  me,  and 
made  me  act  with  some  more  caution  than  before,  and  more  than 
my  directors  used  for  themselves.  My  comrade,  as  I  called  her 
(she  should  have  been  called  my  teacher),  with  another  of  her 
scholars,  was  the  first  in  the  misfortune  \  for  happening  to  be 
upon  the  hunt  for  purchase,  they  made  an  attempt  upon  a  linen- 
draper  in  Cheapside,  but  were  snapped  by  a  hawk's-eyed  jour- 
neyman, and  seized  with  two  pieces  of  cambric,  which  were  taken 
also  upon  them. 

This  was  enough  to  lodge  them  both  in  Newgate,  where  they 
had  the  misfortune  to  have  some  of  their  former  sins  brought  to 
remembrance  ;  two  other  indictments  being  brought  against  them, 
and  the  facts  being  proved  upon  them,  they  were  both  condemned 
to  die ;  they  both  pleaded  their  bellies,  and  were  both  voted 
quick  with  child ;  though  my  tutoress  was  no  more  with  child  than 
I  was. 

I  went  frequently  to  see  them,  and  condole  with  them,  expect- 
ing that  it  would  be  my  turn  next ;  but  the  place  gave  me  so 
much  horror,  reflecting  that  it  was  the  place  of  my  unhappy  birth, 
and  of  my  mother's  misfortunes,  that  I  could  not  bear  it,  so  I  left 
off  going  to  see  them. 

And  O  1  could  I  but  have  taken  warning  by  their  disasters,  I 
had  been  happy  still,  for  I  was  yet  free,  and  had  nothing  brought 
against  me ;  but  it  could  not  be,  my  measure  was  not  yet  filled 
up* 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  1 65 

My  comrade,  having  the  brand  of  an  old  offender,  was  executed ; 
the  young  offender  was  spared,  having  obtained  a  reprieve ;  but 
lay  starving  a  long  while  in  prison,  till  at  last  she  got  her  name 
into  what  they  call  a  circuit  pardon,  and  so  came  off. 

This  terrible  example  of  my  comrade  frighted  me  heartily, 
and  for  a  good  while  I  made  no  excursions ;  but  one  night,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  my  governess's  house,  they  cried.  Fire;  my 
governess  looked  out,  for  we  were  all  up,  and  cried  immediately 
that  such  a  gentlewoman's  house  was  all  of  a  light  fire  a-top,  and 
so  indeed  it  was.  Here  she  gives  me  a  jog ;  Now,  child,  says  she, 
there  is  a  rare  opportunity,  the  fire  being  so  near  that  you  may 
go  to  it  before  the  street  is  blocked  up  with  the  crowd.  She 
presently  gave  me  my  cue ;  Go,  child,  says  she,  to  the  house,  and 
run  in  and  tell  the  lady,  or  anybody  you  see,  that  you  come  to 
help  them,  and  that  you  came  from  such  a  gentlewoman ;  that  is, 
one  of  her  acquaintance  farther  up  the  street. 

Away  I  went,  and,  coming  to  the  house,  I  found  them  all  in 
confusion,  you  may  be  sure ;  I  ran  in,  and  finding  one  of  the 
maids,  Alas  !  sweetheart,  said  I,  how  came  this  dismal  accident? 
where  is  your  mistress?  is  she  safe?  and  where  are  the  children? 

I  come  from  Madam to  help  you.     Away  runs  the  maid ; 

Madam,  madam,  says  she,  screaming  as  loud  as   she  could  yell, 

here  is  a  gentlewoman  come  from  Madam to  help  us.     The 

poor  woman,  half  out  of  her  wits,  with  a  bundle  under  her  arm, 
and  two  Httle  children,  comes  towards   me ;  Madam,  says  I,  let 

me  carry  the  poor  children  to  Madam ,  she  desires  you  to 

send  them ;  she  '11  take  care  of  the  poor  lambs ;  and  so  I  takes 
one  of  them  out  of  her  hand,  and  she  lifts  the  'tother  up  into  my 
arms :  Ay,  do,  for  God  sake,  says  she,  carry  them ;  O  thank  her 
for  her  kindness.  Have  you  anything  else  to  secure,  madam? 
says  I ;  she  will  take  care  of  it.  O  dear  !  says  she,  God  bless 
her,  take  this  bundle  of  plate  and  carry  it  to  her  too ;  O  she  is 
a  good  woman ;  O,  we  are  utterly  ruined,  undone  !  And  away 
she  runs  from  me  out  of  her  wits,  and  the  maids  after  her,  and 
away  comes  I  with  the  two  children  and  the  bundle. 

I  was  no  sooner  got  into  the  street,  but  I  saw 'another  woman 


l66  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

come  to  me ;  O  !  says  she,  mistress,  in  a  piteous  tone,  you  will 
let  fall  the  child ;  come,  come,  this  is  a  sad  time,  let  me  help 
you ;  and  immediately  lays  hold  of  my  bundle  to  carry  it  for  me. 
No,  says  I,  if  you  will  help  me,  take  the  child  by  the  hand,  and 
lead  it  for  me  but  to  the  upper  end  of  the  street ;  I  '11  go  with 
you  and  satisfy  you  for  your  pains. 

She  could  not  avoid  going,  after  what  I  said,  but  the  creature, 
in  short,  was  one  of  the  same  business  with  me,  and  wanted  noth- 
ing but  the  bundle  ;  however,  she  went  with  me  to  the  door,  for 
she  could  not  help  it ;  when  we  were  come  there  I  whispered 
her.  Go  child,  said  I,  I  understand  your  trade,  you  may  meet  with 
purchase  enough. 

She  understood  me  and  walked  off;  I  thundered  at  the  door 
with  the  children,  and  as  the  people  were  raised  before  by  the 
noise  of  the  fire,  I  was  soon  let  in,  and  I  said.  Is  madam  awake, 

pray  tell  her  Mrs. desires  the  favour  of  her  to  take  the  two 

children  in ;  poor  lady,  she  will  be  undone,  their  house  is  all  of 
a  flame.  They  took  the  children  in  very  civilly,  pitied  the  family 
in  distress,  and  away  came  I  with  my  bundle.  One  of  the  maids 
asked  me  if  I  was  not  to  leave  the  bundle  too ;  I  said.  No,  sweet- 
heart, 'tis  to  go  to  another  place,  it  does  not  belong  to  them. 

I  was  a  great  way  out  of  the  hurry  now,  and  so  I  went  on  and 
brought  the  bundle  of  plate,  which  was  very  considerable,  straight 
home,  to  my  old  governess ;  she  told  me  she  would  not  look  into 
it,  but  bade  me  go  again  and  look  for  more. 

She  gave  me  the  like,  cue  to  the  gentlewoman  of  the  next  house 
to  that  which  was  on  fire,  and  I  did  my  endeavour  to  go,  but  by 
this  time  the  alarm  of  fire  was  so  great,  and  so  many  engines 
playing,  and  the  street  so  thronged  with  people,  that  I  could  not 
get  near  the  house,  whatever  I  could  do ;  so  I  came  back  again 
to  my  governess's,  and  taking  the  bundle  up  into  my  chamber, 
I  began  to  examine  it.  It  is  with  horror  that  I  tell  what  a 
treasure  I  found  there ;  'tis  enough  to  say,  that  besides  most  of 
the  family  plate,  which  was  considerable,  I  found  a  gold  chain, 
an  old-fashioned  thing,  the  locket  of  which  was  broken,  so  that 
I  suppose  it  had  not  been  used  some  years,  but  the  gold  was  not 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  167 

the  worse  for  that ;  also  a  little  box  of  burying  rings,  the  lady's 
wedding-ring,  and  some  broken  bits  of  old  lockets  of  gold,  a  gold 
watch,  and  a  purse  with  about  24/.  value  in  old  pieces  of  gold 
coin,  and  several  other  things  of  value. 

This  was  the  greatest  and  the  worst  prize  that  ever  I  was  con- 
cerned in ;  for  indeed,  though,  as  I  have  said  above,  I  was 
hardened  now  beyond  the  power  of  all  reflection  in  other  cases, 
yet  it  really  touched  me  to  the  very  soul,  when  I  looked  into  this 
treasure ;  to  think  of  the  poor  disconsolate  gentlewoman  who 
had  lost  so  much  besides ;  and  who  would  think  to  be  sure  that 
she  had  saved  her  plate  and  best  things ;  how  she  would  be  sur- 
prised when  she  should  find  that  she  had  been  deceived,  and  that 
the  person  that  took  her  children  and  her  goods,  had  come,  as 
was  pretended,  from  the  gentlewoman  in  next  street,  but  that  the 
children  had  been  put  upon  her  without  her  own  knowledge. 

I  say,  I  confess  the  inhumanity  of  this  action  moved  me  very 
much,  and  made  me  relent  exceedingly,  and  tears  stood  in  my 
eyes  upon  that  subject ;  but  with  all  my  sense  of  its  being  cruel 
and  inhuman,  I  could  never  find  in  my  heart  to  make  any  resti- 
tution. The  reflection  wore  ofl",  and  I  quickly  forgot  the  circum- 
stances that  attended  it. 

Nor  was  this  all ;  for  though  by  this  job  I  was  become  consid- 
erably richer  than  before,  yet  the  resolution  I  had  formerly  taken 
of  leaving  off  this  horrid  trade  when  I  had  gotten  a  little  more ; 
and  the  avarice  had  such  success,  that  I  had  no  more  thoughts  of 
coming  to  a  timely  alteration  of  life,  though  without  it  I  could 
expect  no  safety,  no  tranquillity  in  the  possession  of  what  I  had 
gained ;  a  little  more,  and  a  little  more,  was  the  case  still. 

At  length,  yielding  to  the  importunities  of  my  crime,  I  cast  off 
all  remorse,  and  all  the  reflections  on  that  head  turned  to  no  more 
than  this,  that  I  might  perhaps  come  to  have  one  booty  more 
that  might  complete  all ;  but  though  I  certainly  had  that  one 
booty,  yet  every  hit  looked  towards  another,  and  was  so  encour- 
aging to  me  to  go  on  with  the  trade,  that  I  had  no  gust  to  the 
laying  it  down. 

In  this  condition,  hardened  by  success,  and  resolving  to  go  on, 


1 68  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

I  fell  into  the  snare  in  which  I  was  appointed  to  meet  with  my 
last  reward  for  this  kind  of  life.  But  even  this  was  not  yet,  for  I 
met  with  several  successful  adventures  more  in  this  way. 

My  governess  was  for  awhile  really  concerned  for  the  misfortune 
of  my  comrade  that  had  been  hanged,  for  she  knew  enough  of 
my  governess  to  have  sent  her  the  same  way,  and  which  made 
her  very  uneasy  \  indeed  she  was  in  a  very  great  fright. 
I  It  is  true  that  when  she  was  gone  and  had  not  told  what  she 
knew,  my  governess  was  easy  as  to  that  point,  and  perhaps  glad 
she  was  hanged,  for  it  was  in  her  power  to  have  obtained  a 
pardon  at  the  expense  of  her  friends  ;  but  the  loss  of  her,  and  the 
sense  of  her  kindness  in  not  making  her  market  of  what  she 
knew,  moved  my  governess  to  mourn  very  sincerely  for  her.  I 
comforted  her  as  well  as  I  could,  and  she  in  return  hardened  me 
to  merit  more  completely  the  same  fate. 

However,  as  I  have  said,  it  made  me  the  more  wary,  and  par- 
ticularly I  was  very  shy  of  shoplifting,  especially  among  the 
mercers  and  drapers,  who  are  a  set  of  fellows  that  have  their  eyes 
very  much  about  them.  I  made  a  venture  or  two  among  the  lace 
folks,  and  the  milliners,  and  particularly  at  one  shop  where  two 
young  women  were  newly  set  up,  and  had  not  been  bred  to  the 
trade  :  there  I  carried  off  a  piece  of  bone-lace,  worth  six  or  seven 
pounds,  and  a  paper  of  thread ;  but  this  was  but  once,  it  was  a 
trick  that  would  not  serve  again. 

It  was  always  reckoned  a  safe  job  when  we  heard  of  a  new  shop, 
and  especially  when  the  people  were  such  as  were  not  bred  to 
shops ;  such  may  depend  upon  it  that  they  will  be  visited  once  or 
twice  at  their  beginning,  and  they  must  be  very  sharp  indeed  if 
they  can  prevent  it. 

I  made  another  adventure  or  two  after  this,  but  they  were  but 
trifles.  Nothing  considerable  offering  for  a  good  while,  I  began 
to  think  that  I  must  give  over  trade  in  earnest ;  but  my  governess, 
who  was  not  willing  to  lose  me,  and  expected  great  things  of  me, 
brought  me  one  day  into  company  with  a  young  woman  and  a 
fellow  that  went  for  her  husband,  though  as  it  appeared  afterwards 
she  was  not  his  wife,  but  they  were  partners  in  the  trade  they 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  1 69 

carried  on ;  and  in  something  else  too.  In  short,  they  robbed 
together,  lay  together,  were  taken  together,  and  at  last  were 
hanged  together. 

I  came  into  a  kind  of  league  with  these  two  by  the  help  of  my 
governess,  and  they  carried  me  out  into  three  or  four  adventures, 
where  I  rather  saw  them  commit  some  coarse  and  unhandy 
robberies,  in  which  nothing  but  a  great  stock  of  impudence  on 
their  side,  and  gross  negligence  on  the  people's  side  who  were 
robbed,  could  have  made  them  successful ;  so  I  resolved  from  that 
time  forward  to  be  very  cautious  how  I  adventured  with  them ; 
and  indeed  when  two  or  three  unlucky  projects  were  proposed  by 
them,  I  declined  the  offer,  and  persuaded  them  against  it.  One 
time  they  particularly  proposed  robbing  a  watchmaker  of  three 
gold  watches,  which  they  had  eyed  in  the  daytime,  and  found  the 
place  where  he  laid  them  :  one  of  them  had  so  many  keys  of  all 
kinds,  that  he  made  no  question  to  open  the  place  where  the 
watchmaker  had  laid  them ;  and  so  we  made  a  kind  of  an 
appointment ;  but  when  I  came  to  look  narrowly  into  the  thing,  I 
found  they  proposed  breaking  open  the  house,  and  this  I  would  not 
embark  in,  so  they  went  without  me.  They  did  get  into  the  house 
by  main  force,  and  broke  up  the  locked  place  where  the  watches 
were,  but  found  but  one  of  the  gold  watches,  and  a  silver  one, 
which  they  took,  and  got  out  of  the  house  again  very  clear ;  but 
the  family  being  alarmed,  cried  out.  Thieves,  and  the  man  was  pur- 
sued and  taken  ;  the  young  woman  had  got  off  too,  but  unhappily 
was  stopped  at  a  distance,  and  the  watches  found  upon  her ;  and 
thus  I  had  a  second  escape,  for  they  were  convicted,  and  both 
hanged,  being  old  offenders,  though  but  young  people ;  and  as  I 
said  before,  that  they  robbed  together,  so  now  they  hanged 
together,  and  there  ended  my  new  partnership. 

I  began  now  to  be  very  wary,  having  so  narrowly  escaped  a 
scouring,  and  having  such  an  example  before  me ;  but  I  had  a 
new  tempter,  who  prompted  me  every  day,  I  mean  my  governess ; 
and  now  a  prize  presented,  which  as  it  came  by  her  management, 
so  she  expected  a  good  share  of  the  booty ;  there  was  a  good 
quantity  of  Flanders  lace  lodged  in  a  private  house,  where  she 


170  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

had  heard  of  it ;  and  Flanders  lace,  being  prohibited,  it  was  a 
good  booty  to  any  custom-house  officer  that  could  come  at  it ;  I 
had  a  full  account  from  my  governess,  as  well  of  the  quantity  as 
of  the  very  place  where  it  was  concealed,  so  I  went  to  a  custom- 
house officer,  and  told  him  I  had  a  discovery  to  make  to  him,  if 
he  would  assure  me  that  I  should  have  my  due  share  of  the . 
reward  ;  this  was  so  just  an  offer,  that  nothing  could  be  fairer ; 
so  he  agreed,  and  taking  a  constable,  and  me  with  him,  we  beset 
the  house ;  as  I  told  him  I  could  go  directly  to  the  place,  he  left 
it  to  me,  and  the  hole  being  very  dark,  I  squeezed  myself  into 
it,  with  a  candle  in  my  hand,  and  so  reached  the  pieces  out  to 
him,  taking  care,  as  I  gave  him  some,  so  to  secure  as  much  about 
myself  as  I  could  conveniently  dispose  of.  There  was  near  300/. 
worth  of  lace  in  the  whole ;  and  I  secured  about  50/.  worth  of  it 
myself.  The  people  of  the  house  were  not  owners  of  the  lace, 
but  a  merchant  who  had  entrusted  them  with  it ;  so  that  they 
were  not  so  surprised  as  I  thought  they  would  be. 

I  left  the  officer  overjoyed  with  his  prize,  and  fully  satisfied 
with  what  he  had  got,  and  appointed  to  meet  him  at  a  house  of 
his  own  directing,  where  I  came  after  I  had  disposed  of  the  cargo 
I  had  about  me,  of  which  he  had  not  the  least  suspicion  ;  when  I 
came,  he  began  to  capitulate,  believing  I  did  not  understand  the 
right  I  had  in  the  prize,  and  would  fain  have  put  me  off  with  20/., 
but  I  let  him  know  that  I  was  not  so  ignorant  as  he  supposed  I 
was ;  and  yet  I  was  glad  too,  that  he  offered  to  bring  me  to  a 
certainty;  I  asked  100/.  and  he  rose  up  to  30/.;  I  fell  to  80/. 
and  he  rose  again  to  40/. ;  in  a  word,  he  offered  50/.  and  I  con- 
sented, only  demanding  a  piece  of  lace,  which  I  thought  came  to 
about  8/.  or  9/.,  as  if  it  had  been  for  my  own  wear,  and  he  agreed 
to  it;  so  I  got  50/.  in  money  paid  me  that  same  night,  and  made 
an  end  of  the  bargain ;  nor  did  he  ever  know  who  I  was,  or 
•  where  to  inquire  for  me ;  so  that  if  it  had  been  discovered  that 
part  of  the  goods  were  embezzled^  he  could  have  made  no 
challenge  upon  me  for  it. 

I  very  punctually  divided  this  spoil  with  my  governess,  and  I 
passed  with  her  from  this  time  for  a  very  dexterous  manager  in 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  \J\ 

the  nicest  cases ;  I  found  that  this  last  was  the  best  and  easiest 
sort  of  work  that  was  in  my  way,  and  1  made  it  my  business  to 
inquire  out  prohibited  goods;  and  after  buying  some,  usually 
betrayed  them,  but  none  of  these  discoveries  amounted  to  any- 
thing considerable,  not  like  that  I  related  just  now-;  but  I  was 
cautious  of  running  the  great  risks  which  I  found  others  did,  and 
in  which  they  miscarried  every  day. 

The  next  thing  of  moment,  was  an  attempt  at  a  gentlewoman's 
gold  watch.  It  happened  in  a  crowd,  at  a  meeting-house,  where  1 
was  in  very  great  danger  of  being  taken ;  I  had  full  hold  of  her 
watch,  but  giving  a  great  jostle  as  if  somebody  had  thrust  me 
against  her,  and  in  the  juncture  giving  the  watch  a  fair  pull,  I 
found  it  would  not  come,  so  I  let  it  go  that  moment,  and  cried  as 
if  I  had  been  killed,  that  somebody  had  trod  upon  my  foot,  and 
that  there  was  certainly  pickpockets  there,  for  somebody  or  other 
had  given  a  pull  at  my  watch ;  for  you  are  to  observe,  that  on 
these  adventures  we  always  went  very  well  dressed,  and  I  had 
very  good  clothes  on,  and  a  gold  watch  by  my  side,  as  like  a 
lady  as  other  folks. 

I  had  no  sooner  said  so,  but  the  other  gentlewoman  cried  out, 
A  pickpocket,  too,  for  somebody,  she  said,  had  tried  to  pull  her 
watch  away. 

When  I  touched  her  watch,  I  was  close  to  her,  but  when  I 
cried  out,  I  stopped  as  it  were  short,  and  the  crowd  bearing  her 
forward  a  little,  she  made  a  noise  too,  but  it  was  at  some  distance 
from  me,  so  that  she  did  not  in  the  least  suspect  me,  but  when 
she  cried  out,  A  pickpocket,  somebody  cried  out.  Ay,  and  here 
has  been  another,  this  gentlewoman  has  been  attempted  too. 

At  that  very  instant,  a  little  farther  in  the  crowd,  and  very 
luckily  too,  they  cried  out,  A  pickpocket,  again,  and  really  seized 
a  young  fellow  in  the  very  fact.  This,  though  unhappy  for  the 
wretch,  was  very  opportunely  for  my  case,  though  I  had  carried  it 
handsomely  enough  before ;  but  now  it  was  out  of  doubt,  and  all 
the  loose  part  of  the  crowd  ran  that  way,  and  the  poor  boy  was 
delivered  up  to  the  rage  of  the  street,  which  is  a  cruelty  I  need  not 
describe,  and  which,  however,  they  are  always  glad  of,  rather  than 


172  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

be  sent  to  Newgate,  where  they  He  often  a  long  time,  and  some- 
times they  are  hanged,  and  the  best  they  can  look  for,  if  they 
are  convicted,  is  to  be  transported. 

This  was  a  narrow  escape  to  me,  and  I  was  so  frighted,  that  I 
ventured  no  more  at  gold  watches  a  great  while;  there  were 
indeed  many  circumstances  in  this  adventure,  which  assisted  to 
my  escape ;  but  the  chief  was,  that  the  woman  whose  watch  I 
had  pulled  at  was  a  fool ;  that  is  to  say,  she  was  ignorant  of  the 
nature  of  the  attempt,  which  one  would  have  thought  she  should 
not  have  been,  seeing  she  was  wise  enough  to  fasten  her  watch  so 
that  it  could  not  be  sHpt  up ;  but  she  was  in  such  a  fright,  that 
she  had  no  thought  about  her ;  for  she,  when  she  felt  the  pull, 
screamed  out,  and  pushed  herself  forward,  and  put  all  the  people 
about  her  into  disorder,  but  said  not  a  word  of  her  watch,  or  of  a 
pickpocket,  for  at  least  two  minutes,  which  was  time  enough  for 
me,  and  to  spare ;  for  as  I  had  cried  out  behind  her,  as  I  have 
said,  and  bore  myself  back  in  the  crowd  as  she  bore  forward, 
there  were  several  people,  at  least  seven  or  ^ight,  the  throng 
being  still  moving  on,  that  were  got  between  me  and  her  in  that 
time,  and  then  I  crying  out,  A  pickpocket,  rather  sooner  than 
she,  she  might  as  well  be  the  person  suspected  as  I,  and  the 
people  were  confused  in  their  inquiry ;  whereas,  had  she  with  a 
presence  of  mind  needful  on  such  an  occasion,  as  soon  as  she  felt 
the  pull,  not  screamed  out  as  she  did,  but  turned  immediately 
round,  and  seized  the  next  body  that  was  behind  her,  she  had 
infallibly  taken  me. 

This  is  a  direction  not  of  the  kindest  sort  to  the  fraternity,  but 
'tis  certainly  a  key  to  the  clew  of  a  pickpocket's  motions ;  and 
whoever  can  follow  it,  will  as  certainly  catch  the  thief  as  he  will 
be  sure  to  miss  if  he  does  not. 

I  had  another  adventure,  which  puts  this  matter  out  of  doubt, 
and  which  may  be  an  instruction  for  posterity  in  the  case  of  a 
pickpocket :  my  good  old  governess,  to  give  a  short  touch  at  her 
history,  though  she  had  left  off  the  trade,  was,  as  I  may  say,  born 
a  pickpocket,  and,  as  I  understood  afterward,  had  run  through  all 
the  several  degrees  of  that  art,  and  yet  had  been  taken  but  once ; 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  I73 

when  she  was  so  grossly  detected  that  she  was  convicted,  and 
ordered  to  be  transported ;  but  being  a  woman  of  a  rare  tongue, 
and  withal  having  money  in  her  pocket,  she  found  means,  the 
ship  putting  into  Ireland  for  provisions,  to  get  on  shore  there, 
where  she  practised  her  old  trade  some  years ;  when  falling  into 
another  sort  of  company,  she  turned  midwife  and  procuress,  and 
played  a  hundred  pranks,  which  she  gave  me  a  little  history  of, 
in  confidence  between  us  as  we  grew  more  intimate ;  and  it  was 
to  this  wicked  creature  that  I  owed  all  the  dexterity  I  arrived  to, 
in  which  there  were  few  that  ever  went  beyond  me,  or  that 
practised  so  long  without -any   misfortune. 

It  was  after  those  adventures  in  Ireland,  and  when  she  was 
pretty  well  known  in  that  country,  that  she  left  Dublin,  and  came 
over  to  England,  where  the  time  of  her  transportation  being  not 
expired,  she  left  her  former  trade,  for  fear  of  falling  into  bad 
hands  again,  for  then  she  was  sure  to  have  gone  to  wreck.  Here 
she  set  up  the  same  trade  she  had  followed  in  Ireland,  in  which 
she  soon,  by  her  admirable  management,  and  a  good  tongue, 
arrived  to  the  height  which  I  have  already  described,  and  indeed 
began  to  be  rich,  though  her  trade  fell  again  afterwards. 

I  mention  thus  much  of  the  history  of  this  woman  here,  the 
better  to  account  for  the  concern  she  had  in  the  wicked  life  I  was 
now  leading ;  into  all  the  particulars  of  which  she  led  me,  as  it 
were,  by  the  hand,  and  gave  me  such  directions,  and  I  so  well 
followed  them,  that  I  grew  the  greatest  artist  of  my  time,  and 
worked  myself  out  of  every  danger  with  such  dexterity,  that  when 
several  more  of  my  comrades  run  themselves  into  Newgate,  by 
that  time  they  had  been  half  a  year  at  the  trade,  I  had  now 
practised  upwards  of  five  years,  and  the  people  at  Newgate  dici 
not  so  much  as  know  me ;  they  had  heard  much  of  me  indeed, 
and  often  expected  me  there ;  but  I  always  got  off,  though  many 
times  in  the  extremest  danger. 

One  of  the  greatest  dangers  I  was  now  in,  was  that  I  was  too 
well  known  among  the  trade,  and  some  of  them,  whose  hatred 
was  owing  rather  to  envy  than  any  injury  I  had  done  them,  began 
to  be  angry  that  I  should  always  escape  when  they  were  always 


174  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION', 

catched  and  hurried  to  Newgate.  These  were  they  that  gave  me 
the  name  of  Moll  Flanders :  for  it  was  no  more  of  affinity  with 
my  real  name,  or  with  any  of  the  names  I  had  ever  gone  by,  than 
black  is  of  kin  to  white,  except  that  once,  as  before,  I  called 
myself  Mrs.  Flanders,  when  I  sheltered  myself  in  the  Mint ;  but 
that  these  rogues  never  knew,  nor  could  I  ever  learn  how  they 
came  to  give  me  the  name,  or  what  the  occasion  of  it  was.' 

I  was  soon  informed  that  some  of  these  who  were  gotten  fast 
into  Newgate,  had  vowed  to  impeach  me ;  and  as  I  knew  that 
two  or  three  of  them  were  but  too  able  to  do  it,  I  was  under  a 
great  concern,  and  kept  within  doors  for  a  good  while ;  but  my 
governess,  who  was  partner  in  my  success,  and  who  now  played 
a  sure  game,  for  she  had  no  share  in  the  hazard,  I  say,  my  gov- 
erness was  something  impatient  of  my  leading  such  a  useless 
unprofitable  life,  as  she  called  it ;  and  she  laid  a  new  contrivance 
for  my  going  abroad,  and  this  was  to  dress  me  up  in  men's  clothes, 
and  so  put  me  into  a  new  kind  of  practice. 

I  was  tall  and  personable,  but  a  little  too  smooth-faced  for  a 
man ;  however,  as  I  seldom  went  abroad  but  in  the  night,  it  did 
well  enough ;  but  it  was  long  before  I  could  behave  in  my  new 
clothes ;  it  was  impossible  to  be  so  nimble,  so  ready,  so  dexterous 
at  these  things,  in  a  dress  contrary  to  nature  ;  and  as  I  did  every- 
thing clumsily,  so  I  had  neither  the  success,  or  easiness  of  escape 
that  I  had  before,  and  I  resolved  to  leave  it  off;  but  that  resolu- 
tion was  confirmed  soon  after  by  the  following  accident. 

As  my  governess  had  disguised  me  like  a  man,  so  she  joined 
me  with  a  man,  a  young  fellow  that  was  nimble  enough  at  his 
business,  and  for  about  three  weeks  we  did  very  well  together. 
Our  principal  trade  was  watching  shopkeepers'  counters,  and 
slipping  off  any  kinds  of  goods  we  could  see  carelessly  laid  any- 
where, and  we  made  several  good  bargains,  as  we  called  them,  at 
this  work.  And  as  we  kept  always  together,  so  we  grew  very 
intimate,  yet  he  never  knew  that  I  was  not  a  man ;  nay,  though  I 
several  times  went  home  with  him  to  his  lodgings,  according  as 
our  business  directed,  and  four  or  five  times  lay  with  him  all 
night :  but  our  design  lay  another  way,  and  it  was  absolutely  ne- 


MOLL  FLANDERS,  1 75 

cessary  to  me  to  conceal  my  sex  from  him,  as  appeared  afterwards,  ' 
the  circumstances  of  our  living,  coming  in  late,  and  having  such 
business  to  do  as  required  that  nobody  should  be  trusted  with 
coming  into  our  lodgings,  were  such  as  made  it  impossible  to  me 
to  refuse  lying  with  him,  unless  I  would  have  owned  my  sex ;  and 
as  it  was,  I  effectually  concealed  myself. 

But  his  ill,  and  my  good  fortune,  soon  put  an  end  to  this  life, 
which  I  must  own  I  was  sick  of  too.  We  had  made  several  prizes 
in  this  new  way  of  business,  but  the  last  would  have  been  extraor- 
dinary :  there  was  a  shop  in  a  certain  street  which  had  a  ware- 
house behind  it  that  looked  into  another  street,  the  house  making 
the  corner. 

Through  the  window  of  the  warehouse  we  saw  lying  on  the 
counter  or  showboard  which  was  just  before  it,  five  pieces  of  silks, 
besides  other  stuffs ;  and  though  it  was  almost  dark,  yet  the  people 
being  busy  in  the  fore-shop  had  not  had  time  to  shut  up  those 
windows,  or  else  had  forgot  it. 

This  the  young  fellow  was  so  overjoyed  with,  that  he  could  not 
restrain  himself;  it  lay  within  his  reach,  he  said,  and  he  swore 
violently  to  me  that  he  would  have  it,  if  he  broke  down  the  house 
for  it ;  I  dissuaded  him  a  little,  but  saw  there  was  no  remedy ;  so 
he  run  rashly  upon  it,  slipt  out  a  square  out  of  the  sash  window 
dexterously  enough,  and  got  four  pieces  of  the  silks,  and  came 
with  them  towards  me,  but  was  immediately  pursued  with  a  ter- 
rible clutter  and  noise ;  we  were  standing  together  indeed,  but  I 
had  not  taken  any  of  the  goods  out  of  his  hand,  when  I  said  to 
him  hastily,  You  are  undone  !  He  run  like  lightning,  and  I  too, 
but  the  pursuit  was  hotter  after  him,  because  he  had  the  goods  : 
he  dropt  two  of  the  pieces,  which  stopped  them  a  little,  but  the 
crowd  increased,  and  pursued  us  both ;  they  took  him  soon  after 
with  the  other  two  pieces,  and  then  the  rest  followed  me ;  I  run 
for  it  and  got  into  my  governess's  house,  whither  some  quick- 
eyed  people  followed  me  so  warmly  as  to  fix  me  there ;  they  did 
not  immediately  knock  at  the  door,  by  which  I  got  time  to  throw 
off  my  disguise,  and  dress  me  in  my  own  clothes ;  besides,  when 
they  came  there,  my  governess,  who  had  her  tale  ready,  kept  her 


176  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

'  door  shut,  and  called  out  to  them  and  told  them  there  was  no 
man  came  in  there  ;  the  people  affirmed  there  did  a  man  come 
in  there,  and  swore  they  would  break  open  the  door. 

My  governess,  not  at  all  surprised,  spoke  calmly  to  them,  told 
them  they  should  very  freely  come  and  search  her  house,  if  they 
would  bring  a  constable,  and  let  in  none  but  such  as  the  con- 
stable would  admit,  for  it  was  unreasonable  to  let  in  a  whole 
crowd  ;  this  they  could  not  refuse,  though  they  were  a  crowd ;  so 
a  constable  was  fetched  immediately,  and  she  very  freely  opened 
the  door,  the  constable  kept  the  door,  and  the  men  he  appointed 
searched  the  house,  my  governess  going  with  them  from  room  to 
room.  When  she  came  to  my  room  she  called  to  me,  and  said 
aloud.  Cousin,  pray  open  the  door,  here's  some  gentlemen  that 
must  come  and  look  into  your  room. 

I  had  a  little  girl  with  me,  which  was  my  governess's  grand- 
child, as  she  called  her ;  and  I  bade  her  open  the  door,  and 
there  sat  I  at  work  with  a  great  litter  of  things  about  me,  as  if  I 
had  been  at  work  all  day,  being  undressed,  with  only  night  clothes 
on  my  head,  and  a  loose  morning  gown  about  me  :  my  governess 
made  a  kind  of  excuse  for  their  disturbing  me,  telling  partly  the 
occasion  of  it,  and  that  she  had  no  remedy  but  to  open  the  doors 
to  them,  and  let  them  satisfy  themselves,  for  all  she  could  say 
would  not  satisfy  them  :  I  sat  still,  and  bid  them  search  if  they 
pleased,  for  if  there  was  anybody  in  the  house,  I  was  sure  they 
were  not  in  my  room  ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  house,  I  had  nothing 
to  say  to  that,  I  did  not  understand  what  they  looked  for. 

Everything  looked  so  innocent  and  so  honest  about  me,  that 
they  treated  me  civiller  than  I  expected ;  but  it  was  not  till  they 
had  searched  the  room  to  a  nicety,  even  under  the  bed,  and  in  the 
bed,  and  everywhere  else,  where  it  was  possible  anything  could 
be  hid ;  when  they  had  done,  and  could  find  nothing,  they  asked 
my  pardon  and  went  down. 

When  they  had  thus  searched  the  house  from  bottom  to  top, 
and  then  from  top  to  bottom,  and  could  find  nothing,  they  ap- 
peased the  mob  pretty  well ;  but  they  carried  my  governess  before 
the  justice  :  two  men  swore  that  they  saw  the  man,  whom  they 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  1 77 

pursued,  go  into  her  house ;  my  governess  rattled  and  made  a 
great  noise  that  her  house  should  be  insulted,  and  that  she  should 
be  used  thus  for  nothing  \  that  if  a  man  did  come  in,  he  might 
go  out  again  presently  for  aught  she  knew,  for  she  was  ready  to 
make  oath  that  no  man  had  been  within  her  doors  all  that  day  as 
she  knew  of;  which  was  very  true  ;  that  it  might  be,  that  as  she 
was  above  stairs,  any  fellow  in  a  fright  might  find  the  door  open, 
and  run  in  for  shelter  when  he  was  pursued,  but  that  she  knew 
nothing  of  it ;  and  if  it  had  been  so,  he  certainly  went  out  again, 
perhaps  at  the  other  door,  for  she  had  another  door  into  an  alley, 
and  so  had  made  his  escape. 

This  was  indeed  probable  enough,  and  the  justice  satisfied 
himself  with  giving  her  an  oath  that  she  had  not  received  or 
admitted  any  man  into  her  house  to  conceal  him,  or  protect  or 
hide  him  from  justice :  this  oath  she  might  justly  take,  and  did 
so,  and  so  she  was  dismissed. 

It  is  easy  to  judge  what  a  fright  I  was  in  upon  this  occasion, 
and  it  was  impossible  for  my  governess  ever  to  bring  me  to  dress 
in  that  disguise  again;  for,  as  I  told  her,  I  should  certainly 
betray  myself. 

My  poor  partner  in  this  mischief  was  now  in  a  bad  case,  for 
he  was  carried  away  before  my  lord  mayor,  and  by  his  worship 
committed  to  Newgate,  and  the  people  that  took  him  were  so 
wilHng,  as  well  as  able,  to  prosecute  him,  that  they  offered 
themselves  to  enter  into  recognisances  to  appear  at  the  sessions, 
and  pursue  the  charge  against  him. 

However,  he  got  his  indictment  deferred,  upon  promise  to  dis- 
cover his  accompHces,  and  particularly  the  man  that  was  concerned 
with  him  in  this  robbery ;  and  he  failed  not  to  do  his  endeavour, 
for  he  gave  in  my  name,  whom  he  called  Gabriel  Spencer,  which 
was  the  name  I  went  by  to  him ;  and  here  appeared  the  wisdom 
of  my  concealing  myself  from  him,  without  which  I  had  been 
undone. 

He  did  all  he  could  to  discover  this  Gabriel  Spencer ;  he  de- 
scribed me ;  he  discovered  the  place  where  he  said  I  lodged ; 
and  in  a  word,  all  the  particulars  that  he  could  of  my  dwelling ; 


178  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

but  having  concealed  the  main  circumstances  of  my  sex  from  him, 
I  had  a  vast  advantage,  and  he  could  never  hear  of  me;  he 
brought  two  or  three  families  into  trouble,  by  his  endeavouring 
to  find  me  out,  but  they  knew  nothing  of  me,  any  more  than  that 
he  had  a  fellow  with  him,  that  they  had  seen,  but  knew  nothing 
of;  and  as  to  my  governess,  though  she  was  the  means  of  his 
coming  to  me,  yet  it  was  done  at  secondhand,  and  he  knew 
nothing  of  her  neither. 

This  turned  to  his  disadvantage;  for  having  promised  dis- 
coveries, but  not  being  able  to  make  it  good,  it  was  looked  upon 
as  trifling,  and  he  was  the  more  fiercely  pursued  by  the  shop- 
keeper. 

I  was,  however,  terribly  uneasy  all  this  while,  and  that  I  might 
be  quite  out  of  the  way,  I  went  away  from  my  governess  for  a 
while,  but  not  knowing  whither  to  wander,  I  took  a  maid-servant 
with  me,  and  took  the  stage-coach  to  Dunstable  to  my  old  land- 
lord and  landlady,  where  I  lived  so  handsomely  with  my  Lan- 
cashire husband :  here  I  told  her  a  formal  story,  that  I  expected 
my  husband  every  day  from  Ireland,  and  that  I  had  sent  a  letter 
to  him  that  I  would  meet  him  at  Dunstable  at  her  house,  and 
that  he  would  certainly  land  if  the  wind  was  fair,  in  a  few  days  ; 
so  that  I  was  come  to  spend  a  few  days  with  them  till  he  could 
come,  for  he  would  either  come  post,  or  in  the  West-Chester 
coach,  I  knew  not  which,  but  whichsoever  it  was,  he  would  be 
sure  to  come  to  that  house  to  meet  me. 

My  landlady  was  mighty  glad  to  see  me,  and  my  landlord  made 
such  a  stir  with  me,  that  if  I  had  been  a  princess  I  could  not  have 
been  better  used,  and  here  I  might  have  been  welcome  a  month 
or  two  if  I  had  thought  fit. 

But  my  business  was  of  anotlier  nature;  I  was  very  uneasy 
(though  so  well  disguised  that  it  was  scarce  possible  to  detect 
me)  lest  this  fellow  should  find  me  out ;  and  though  he  could  not 
charge  me  with  the  robbery,  having  persuaded  him  not  to  venture, 
and  having  done  nothing  of  it  myself,  yet  he  might  have  charged 
me  with  other  things^  and  have  bought  his  own  life  at  the  expense 
of  mine. 


MOLL  FLANDERS.  1 79 

This  filled  me  with  horrible  apprehensions :  I  had  no  resource, 
no  friend,  no  confidant  but  my  old  governess,  and  I  knew  no 
remedy  but  to  put  my  life  into  her  hands ;  and  so  I  did,  for  I  let 
her  know  where  to  send  to  me,  and  had  several  letters  from  her 
while  I  stayed  here.  Some  of  them  almost  scared  me  out  of  my 
wits ;  but  at  last  she  sent  me  the  joyful  news  that  he  was  hanged, 
which  was  the  best  news  to  me  that  I  had  heard  a  great  while. 

I  had  stayed  here  five  weeks,  and  lived  very  comfortably 
indeed,  the  secret  anxiety  of  my  mind  excepted;  but  when  I 
received  this  letter  I  looked  pleasantly  again,  and  told  my  land- 
lady that  I  had  received  a  letter  from  my  spouse  in  Ireland,  that 
I  had  the  good  news  of  his  being  very  well,  but  had  the  bad  news 
that  his  business  would  not  permit  him  to  come  away  so  soon  as 
he  expected,  and  so  I  was  like  to  go  back  again  without  him. 

My  landlady  complimented  me  upon  the  good  news,  however, 
that  I  had  heard  he  was  well ;  For  I  have  observed,  madam,  says 
she,  you  han't  been  so  pleasant  as  you  used  to  be ;  you  have 
been  over  head  and  ears  in  care  for  him,  I  dare  say,  says  the 
good  woman ;  't  is  easy  to  be  seen  there  's  an  alteration  in  you 
for  the  better,  says  she.  Well,  I  am  sorry  the  'squire  can't  come 
yet,  says  my  landlord  :  I  should  have  been  heartily  glad  to  have 
seen  him  :  when  you  have  certain  news  of  his  coming,  you  '11  take 
a  step  hither  again,  madam,  says  he  :  you  shall  be  very  welcome 
whenever  you  please  to  come. 

With  all  these  fine  compliments  we  parted,  and  I  came  merry 
enough  to  London,  and  found  my  governess  as  well  pleased,  as  I 
was.  And  now  she  told  me  she  would  never  recommend  any 
partner  to  me  again,  for  she  always  found,  she  said,  that  I  had 
the  best  luck  when  I  ventured  by  myself.  And  so  indeed  I  had, 
for  I  was  seldom  in  any  danger  when  I  was  by  myself,  or  if  I  was, 
I  got  out  of  it  with  more  dexterity  than  when  I  was  entangled 
with  the  dull  measures  of  other  people,  who  had  perhaps  less 
forecast,  and  were  more  impatient  than  I ;  for  though  I  had  as 
much  courage  to  venture  as  any  of  them,  yet  I  used  more  caution 
before  I  undertook  a  thing,  and  had  more  presence  of  mind  to 
bring  myself  off. 


l8o  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

I  have  often  wondered  even  at  my  own  hardiness  another  way, 
that  when  all  my  companions  were  surprised,  and  fell  so  suddenly 
into  the  hand  of  justice,  yet  I  could  not  all  this  while  enter  into 
one  serious  resolution  to  leave  off  this  trade ;  and  especially  con- 
sidering that  I  was  now  very  far  from  being  poor,  that  the  temp- 
tation of  necessity,  which  is  the  general  introduction  of  all  such 
wickedness,  was  now  removed;  that  I  had  near  500/.  by  me  in 
ready  money,  on  which  I  might  have  lived  very  well,  if  I  had 
thought  fit  to  have  retired ;  but,  I  say,  I  had  not  so  much  as  the 
least  inclination  to  leave  off;  no,  not  so  much  as  I  had  before, 
when  I  had  but  200/.  beforehand,  and  when  I  had  no  such  fright- 
ful examples  before  my  eyes  as  these  were.  From  hence  'tis 
evident,  that  when  once  we  are  hardened  in  crime,  no  fear  can 
affect  us,  no  example  give  us  any  warning. 

I  had  indeed  one  comrade,  whose  fate  went  very  near  me  for  a 
good  while,  though  I  wore  it  off  too  in  time.  That  case  was  in- 
deed very  unhappy ;  I  had  made  a  prize  of  a  piece  of  very  good 
damask  in  a  mercer's  shop,  and  went  clear  off  myself;  but  had 
conveyed  the  piece  to  this  companion  of  mine,  when  we  went  out 
of  the  shop ;  and  she  went  one  way,  I  went  another.  We  had 
not  been  long  out  of  the  shop,  but  the  mercer  missed  the  piece 
of  stuff,  and  sent  his  messengers,  one  one  way,  and  one  another, 
and  they  presently  seized  her  that  had  the  piece,  with  the  damask 
upon  her ;  as  for  me,  I  had  very  luckily  stept  into  a  house  where 
there  was  a  lace  chamber,  up  one  pair  of  stairs,  and  had  the  satis- 
faction, or  the  terror  indeed,  of  looking  out  of  the  window,  and 
seeing  the  poor  creature  dragged  away  to  the  justice,  who  imme- 
diately committed  her  to  Newgate. 

I  was  careful  to  attempt  nothing  in  the  lace  chamber,  but 
tumbled  their  goods  pretty  much  to  spend  time ;  then  bought 
a  few  yards  of  edging,  and  paid  for  it,  and  came  away  very  sad- 
hearted  indeed,  for  the  poor  woman  who  was  in  tribulation  for 
what  I  only  had  stolen. 

Here  again  my  old  caution  stood  me  in  good  stead ;  though  I 
often  robbed  with  these  people,  yet  I  never  let  them  know  who  I 
was,  nor  could  they  ever  find  out  my  lodging,  though  they  often 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  l8l 

endeavoured  to  watch  me  to  it.  They  all  knew  me  by  the  name 
of  Moll  Flanders,  though  even  some  of  them  rather  believed  I 
was  she,  than  knew  me  to  be  so ;  my  name  was  public  among 
them  indeed ;  but  how  to  find  me  out  they  knew  not,  nor  so 
much  as  how  to  guess  at  my  quarters,  whether  they  were  at  the 
east  end  of  the  town,  or  the  west ;  and  this  wariness  was  my  safety 
upon  all  these  occasions. 

I  kept  close  a  great  while  upon  the  occasion  of  this  woman's 
disaster ;  I  knew  that  if  I  should  do  anything  that  should  mis- 
carry, and  should  be  carried  to  prison,  she  would  be  there,  and 
ready  to  witness  against  me,  and  perhaps  save  her  life  at  my  ex- 
pense ;  I  considered  that  I  began  to  be  very  well  known  by  name 
at  the  Old  Bailey,  though  they  did  not  know  my  face ;  and  that 
if  I  should  fall  into  their  hands,  I  should  be  treated  as  an  old 
offender  :  and  for  this  reason,  I  was  resolved  to  see  what  this  poor 
creature's  fate  should  be  before  I  stirred,  though  several  times  in 
her  distress  I  conveyed  money  to  her  for  her  relief. 

At  length  she  came  to  her  trial.  She  pleaded  she  did  not  steal 
the  things,  but  that  one  Mrs.  Flanders,  as  she  heard  her  called  (for 
she  did  not  know  her),  gave  the  bundle  to  her  after  they  came  out 
of  the  shop,  and  bade  her  carry  it  home.  They  asked  her  where  this 
Mrs.  Flanders  was?  but  she  could  not  produce  her,  neither  could 
she  give  the  least  account  of  me ;  and  the  mercer's  men  swearing 
positively  that  she  was  in  the  shop  when  the  goods  were  stolen, 
that  they  immediately  missed  them,  and  pursued  her,  and  found 
them  upon  her,  thereupon  the  jury  brought  her  in  guilty ;  but  the 
court  considering  that  she  really  was  not  the  person  that  stole  the 
goods,  and  that  it  was  very  possible  she  could  not  find  out  this 
Mrs.  Flanders,  meaning  me,  though  it  would  save  her  life,  which 
indeed  was  true,  they  allowed  her  to  be  transported ;  which  was 
the  utmost  favour  she  could  obtain,  only  that  the  court  told  her, 
if  she  could  in  the  mean  time  produce  the  said  Mrs.  Flanders, 
they  would  intercede  for  her  pardon  ;  that  is  to  say,  if  she  could 
find  me  out,  and  hang  me,  she  should  not  bt  transported.  This 
I  took  care  to  make  impossible  to  her,  and  so  she  was  shipped  off 
in  pursuance  of  her  sentence  a  little  while  after. 


!82  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

I  must  repeat  it  again,  that  the  fate  of  this  poor  woman  troubled 
me  exceedingly ;  and  I  began  to  be  very  pensive,  knowing  that  I 
was  really  the  instrument  of  her  disaster :  but  my  own  life,  which 
was  so  evidently  in  danger,  took  off  my  tenderness ;  and  seeing 
she  was  not  put  to  death,  I  was  easy  at  her  transportation,  because 
she  was  then  out  of  the  way  of  doing  me  any  mischief,  whatever 
should  happen. 

The  disaster  of  this  woman  was  some  months  before  that  of  the 
last-recited  story,  and  was  indeed  partly  the  occasion  of  my 
governess  proposing  to  dress  me  up  in  men's  clothes,  that  I  might 
go  about  unobserved  ;  but  I  was  soon  tired  of  that  disguise,  as  I 
have  said,  for  it  exposed  me  to  too  many  difficulties. 

I  was  now  easy,  as  to  all  fear  of  witnesses  against  me,  for  all 
those  that  had  either  been  concerned  with  me,  or  that  knew  me 
by  the  name  of  Moll  Flanders,  were  either  hanged  or  transported ; 
and  if  I  should  have  had  the  misfortune  to  be  taken,  I  might  call 
.myself  anything  else,  as  well  as  Moll  Flanders,  and  no  old  sins 
could  be  placed  to  my  account ;  so  I  began  to  run  a-tick  again, 
with  the  more  freedom,  and  several  successful  adventures  I  made, 
though  not  such  as  I  had  made  before. 

We  had  at  that  time  another  fire  happened  not  a  great  way  off 
from  the  place  where  my  governess  lived,  and  I  made  an  attempt 
there  as  before,  but  as  I  was  not  soon  enough  before  the  crowd  of 
people  came  in,  and  could  not  get  to  the  house  I  aimed  at,  instead 
of  a  prize,  I  got  a  mischief,  which  had  almost  put  a  period  to  my 
life  and  all  my  wicked  doings  together ;  for  the  fire  being  very 
furious,  and  the  people  in  a  great  fright  in  removing  their  goods, 
and  throwing  them  out  of  window,  a  wench  from  out  of  a  window 
threw  a  feather-bed  just  upon  me ;  it  is  true,  the  bed  being  soft  it 
broke  no  bones ;  but  as  the  weight  was  great,  and  made  greater 
by  the  fall,  it  beat  me  down,  and  laid  me  dead  for  awhile :  nor 
did  the  people  concern  themselves  much  to  deliver  me  from  it,  or 
to  recover  me  at  all ;  but  I  lay  Kke  one  dead  and  neglected  a 
good  while,  till  somebody  going  to  remove  the  bed  out  of  the  way, 
helped  me  up ;  it  was  indeed  a  wonder  the  people  in  the  house 
had  not  thrown  other  goods  out  after  it,  and  which  might  have 


MOLL   FLANDERS.  1 83 

fallen  upon  it,  and  then  I  had  been  inevitably  killed ;  but  I  was 
reserved  for  farther  afflictions. 

This  accident,  however,  spoiled  my  market  for  that  time,  and  I 
came  home  to  my  governess  very  much  hurt,  and  frighted,  and  it 
was  a  good  while  before  she  could  set  me  upon  my  feet  again. 


l84  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 


X.     PAMELA;    OR,   VIRTUE   REWARDED. 

[The  first  two  letters  of  the  Andrews  correspondence  will  serve  as  illustra- 
tion of  Richardson's  method  and  design.  The  general  tone  of  the  narrative 
is  that  suggested  in  the  extracts.     "  Pamela"  was  published  in  1740.] 

LeiT'ER    I. 

My  dear  Father  and  Mother,  —  I  have  great  trouble,  and 
some  comfort,  to  acquaint  you  with.  The  trouble  is,  that  my  good 
lady  died  of  the  illness  I  mention'd  to  you,  and  left  us  all  much 
griev'd  for  the  loss  of  her ;  for  she  was  a  dear  good  lady,  and  kind 
to  all  us  her  servants.  Much  I  fear'd,  that  as  I  was  taken  by  her 
ladyship  to  wait  upon  her  person,  I  should  be  quite  destitute 
again,  and  forc'd  to  return  to  you  and  my  poor  mother,  who  have 
enough  to  do  to  maintain  yourselves ;  and,  as  my  good  lady's 
goodness  had  put  me  to  write  and  cast  accompts,  and  made  me  a 
little  expert  at  my  needle,  and  otherwise  quahfy'd  above  my  degree, 
it  was  not  every  family  that  could  have  found  a  place  that  your 
poor  Pamela  was  fit  for :  But  God,  whose  graciousness  to  us  we 
have  so  often  experienc'd,  put  it  into  my  good  lady's  heart,  on  her 
death-bed,  just  an  hour  before  she  expir'd,  to  recommend  to  my 
young  master  all  her  servants,  one  by  one ;  and  when  it  came  to 
my  turn  to  be  recommended  (for  I  was  sobbing  and  crying  at  her 
pillow)  she  could  only  say  —  My  dear  son  !  and  so  broke  off  a 
little ;  and  then  recovering  —  Remember  my  poor  Pamela  !  And 
those  were  some  of  her  last  words  !  O  how  my  eyes  overflow  ! 
Don't  wonder  to  see  the  paper  so  blotted  ! 

Well,  but  God's  will  must  be  done  !  and  so  comes  the  comfort, 
that  I  shall  not  be  obliged  to  return  back  to  be  a  burden  to  my 
dear  parents  !  For  my  master  said  —  I  will  take  care  of  you  all, 
my  good  maidens ;  and  for  you,  Pamela,  (and  he  took  me  by  the 
hand ;  yes,  he  took  my  hand  before  them  all)  for  my  dear 
mother's  sake,  I  will  be  a  friend  to  you,  and  you  shall  take  care 
of  my  linen.     God  bless  him  !  and  pray  with  me,  my  dear  father 


PAMELA;    OR,   VIRTUE   REWARDED,  185 

and  mother,  for  a  blessing  upon  him  :  For  he  has  given  mourn- 
ing and  a  year's  wages  to  all  my  lady's  servants ;  and  I,  having  no 
wages  as  yet,  my  poor  lady  having  said  she  would  do  for  me  as  I 
deserv'd,  ordered  the  housekeeper  to  give  me  mourning  with  the 
rest,  and  gave  me  with  his  own  hand  four  guineas,  and  some  sil- 
ver, which  were  in  my  lady's  pocket  when  she  dy'd ;  and  said,  if 
I  was  a  good  girl,  and  faithful  and  diligent,  he  would  be  a  friend 
to  me,  for  his  mother's  sake.  And  so  I  send  you  these  four 
guineas  for  your  comfort.  I  formerly  sent  you  such  little  matters 
as  arose  from  my  lady's  bounty,  loth  as  you  was  always  to  take 
anything  from  me ;  But  Providence  will  not  let  me  want ;  and  I 
have  made,  in  case  of  sudden  occasions,  a  little  reserve  (besides 
the  silver  now  given  me)  that  I  may  not  be  obliged  to  borrow, 
and  look  little  in  the  eyes  of  my  fellow-servants  :  And  so  you  may 
pay  some  old  debt  with  part ;  and  keep  the  other  part  to  comfort 
you  both.  If  I  get  more,  I  am  sure  it  is  my  duty,  and  it  shall  be 
my  care,  to  love  and  cherish  you  both ;  for  you  have  lov'd  and 
cherish'd  me,  when  I  could  do  nothing  for  myself.  I  send  them 
by  John  our  footman,  who  goes  your  way ;  but  he  does  not  know 
what  he  carries ;  because  I  seal  them  up  in  one  of  the  little  pill- 
boxes, which  my  lady  had,  wrapp'd  close  in  paper,  that  they  may 
not  chink :  and  be  sure  don't  open  it  before  him. 

I  know,  my  dear  father  and  mother,  I  must  give  you  both  grief 
and  pleasure ;  and  so  I  will  only  say,  pray  for  your  Pamela ;  who 
will  ever  be  Your  dutiful  Daughter. 

I  have  been  scared  out  of  my  senses ;  for  just  now,  as  I  was 
folding  up  this  letter,  in  my  late  lady's  dressing  room,  in  comes 
my  young  master  !  Good  sirs  !  how  I  was  frightened  !  I  went 
to  hide  the  letter  in  my  bosom,,  and  he,  seeing  me  tremble,  said 
smiling  —  To  whom  have  you  been  writing,  Pamela?  —  I  said, 
in  my  confusion  —  Pray,  your  honour,  forgive  me  !  Only  to  my 
father  and  mother.  Well,  then,  let  me  see  what  a  hand  you 
write.  —  He  took  it  without  saying  more,  and  read  it  quite  through, 
and  then  gave  it  me  again;  and  I  said  —  Pray  your  honour, 
forgive  me  !     Yet  I  know  not  for  what :  For  he  was  not  undutiful 


IJ86  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

to  his  parents ;  and  why  should  he  be  angry  that  I  was  dutiful  to 
mine !  And  indeed  he  was  not  angry ;  for  he  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  said  —  You  are  a  good  girl,  to  be  kind  to  your  aged 
father  ahd  mother.  I  am  not  angry  with  you  for  writing  such 
innocent  matters  as  these  ;  thd*  you  ought  to  be  wary  what  tales 
you  send  out  of  a  family.  Be  faithful  and  diligent ;  and  do  as  you 
should  do,  and  I  like  you  the  better  for  this.  And  then  he  said  — 
Why,  Pamela,  you  write  a  pretty  hand,  and  spell  very  well  too. 
You  may  look  into  any  of  my  mother's  books  to  improve  yourself, 
so  you  take  care  of  them. 

To  be  sure  I  did  nothing  but  curt'sy  and  cry,  and  was  all  in 
confusion,  at  his  goodness.  Indeed,  he  was  once  thought  to  be 
wildish ;  but  he  is  now  the  best  of  gentlemen,  I  think  ! 

But  I  am  making  another  long  letter :  So  will  only  add  to  it, 
that  I  shall  ever  be  Your  dutiful  Daughter, 

Pamela  Andrews. 

Letter  II.  —  Her  Father  in  Answer. 

My  dear  Child,  —  Your  letter  was  indeed  a  great  trouble,  and 
some  comfort,  to  me,  and  to  your  poor  mother.  We  are  troubled, 
to  be  sure,  for  your  good  lady's  death,  who  took  such  care  of  you, 
and  gave  you  learning,  and  for  three  or  four  years  past  has  always 
been  giving  you  clothes  and  linen,  and  everything  that  a  gentle- 
woman need  not  be  asham'd  to  appear  in.  But  our  chief  trouble 
is,  and  indeed  a  very  great  one,  for  fear  you  should  be  brought  to 
(anything  dishonest  or  wicked,  by  being  set  so  above  yowself. 
Everybody  talks  how  you  are  come  on,  and  what  a  genteel  girl 
you  are  ;  and  some  say  you  are  very  pretty ;  and,  indeed,  when  I 
saw  you  last,  which  is  about  six  months  ago,  I  should  have 
thought  so  myself,  if  you  was  not  our  child.  But  what  avails  all 
this,  if  you  are  to  be  ruin'd  and  undone  !  Indeed,  my  dear 
Pamela,  we  begin  to  be  in  great  fear  for  you;  for  what  signify 
all  the  riches  in  the  world,  with  a  bad  conscience,  and  to  be 
dishonest  ?  We  are,  it  is  true,  very  poor,  and  find  it  hard  enough 
to  live ;  tho'  once,  as  you  know,  it  was  better  with  us.  But  we 
would  sooner  live  upon  the  water,  and,  if  possible,  the  clay  of  the 


PAMELA;    OR,   VIRTUE   REWARDED.  1 8/ 

ditches  I  contentedly  dig,  than  live  better  at  the  price  of  our  dear 
child's  ruin. 

I  hope  the  good  ^squire  has  no  design ;  but,  as  he  was  once,  as 
you  know,  a  little  wildish,  and  as  he  has  given  you  so  much  money, 
and  speaks  so  kindly  to  you,  if  you  would  do  as  you  should  do  : 
these  things  make  us  very  fearful  for  your  virtue. 

I  have  spoken  to  good  old  widow  Mumford  about  it,  who,  you 
know,  has  formerly  lived  in  good  families ;  and  she  gives  us  some 
comfort :  for  she  says  it  is  not  unusual  when  a  lady  dies,  to  give 
what  she  has  about  her  person  to  her  waiting-maid,  and  to  such  as 
sit  up  with  her  in  her  illness.  But  then,  why  should  he  smile  so 
kindly  upon  you  ?  Why  should  he  take  such  a  poor  girl  as  you  by 
the  hand,  as  your  letter  says  he  has  done  twice  ?  Why  should  he 
deign  to  read  your  letter  written  to  us,  and  commend  your  writing 
and  spelling?  Indeed,  indeed,  my  dearest  child,  our  hearth  ake 
for  you  ;  and  then  you  seem  so  full  oijoy  at  his  goodness,  so  taken 
with  his  kind  expressions  (which,-  truly,  are  very  great  favours, 
if  he  means  well)  that  we  fear  —  Yes,  my  dear  child,  we  fear  — 
you  should  be  too  grateful  and  reward  him  with  that  jewel,  your 
virtue,  which  no  riches,  nor  favour,  nor  anything  in  this  Hfe,  can 
make  up  to  you. 

I,  too,  have  written  a  long  letter ;  but  will  say  one  thing  more ; 
and  that  is,  that  in  the  midst  of  our  poverty  and  misfortunes  we 
have  trusted  in  God's  goodness,  and  been  honest,  and  doubt  not 
to  be  happy  hereafter,  if  we  continue  to  be  good,  tho'  our  lot  is 
hard  here  :  But  the  loss  of  our  dear  child's  virtue  would  be  a 
grief  that  we  could  not  bear,  and  would  very  soon  bring  our  grey 
hairs  to  the  grave. 

If,  then,  you  love  us,  if  you  wish  for  God's  blessing,  and  your 
own  future  happiness,  we  charge  you  to  stand  upon  your  guard ; 
and,  if  you  find  the  least  thing  that  looks  like  a  design  upon  your 
virtue,  be  sure  you  leave  everything  behind  you,  and  come  away 
to  us  !  for  we  had  rather  see  you  all  cover'd  with  rags,  and  even 
follow  you  to  the  church-yard,  than  have  it  said  a  child  of  ours 
preferred  any  worldly  conveniences  to  her  virtue. 

We  accept  kindly  of  your  dutiful  present ;  but  till  we  are  out  of 


I88  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

our  pain,  cannot  make  use  of  it,  for  fear  we  should  partake  of  the 
price  of  our  poor  daughter's  shame  :  So  have  laid  it  up  in  a  rag 
among  the  thatch,  over  the  window,  for  a  while,  lest  we  should  be 
robbed. 

With  our  blessings,  and  our  prayers  for  you,  we  remain. 
Your  careful,  but  loving  Father  and  Mother, 

John  and  Euz.  Andrews. 


TOM  JONES.  189 


XL     TOM  JONES. 

[The  following  chapters  from  the  sixth  book  of  Fielding's  "  Tom  Jones  * 
have  been  chosen  as  introducing  within  a  comparatively  brief  and  complete? 
extract  the  principal  characters  of  the  novel.  The  hero  himself,  it  ma; 
appear  to  some,  is  very  little  upon  the  scene  ;  but  the  character  of  Squire 
Western  is,  after  all,  the  strongest  and  best-drawn  portrait  in  Fielding's 
pages,  and  in  the  passages  selected  the  Squire  is  prominent,  and  character- 
istically himself.    There  are  no  omissions  in  the  text.] 

BOOK  VI. 
CONTAINING  ABOUT  THREE   WEEKS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

OF   LOVE. 

In  our  last  book  we  have  been  obliged  to  deal  pretty  much 
with  the  passion  of  love ;  and,  in  our  succeeding  book  shall  be 
forced  to  handle  this  subject  still  more  largely.  It  may  not, 
therefore,  in  this  place,  be  improper  to  apply  ourselves  to  the 
examination  of  that  modem  doctrine,  by  which  certain  philos- 
ophers, among  many  other  wonderful  discoveries,  pretend  to 
have  found  out,  that  there  is  no  such  passion  in  the  human- 
breast. 

Whether  these  philosophers  be  the  same  with  that  surprising 
sect,  who  are  honourably  mentioned  by  the  late  Dr.  Swift,  as  hav- 
ing, by  the  mere  force  of  genius  alone,  without  the  least  assistance 
of  any  kind  of  learning,  or  even  reading,  discovered  that  profound  ^ 
and  invaluable  secret,  that  there  is  no  God ;  or  whether  they  are 
not  rather  the  same  with  those  who,  some  years  since,  very  much 


IQO  STUDY  GF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

alarmed  the  world,  by  showing  that  there  were  no  such  things  as 
virtue  or  goodness  really  existing  in  human  nature,  and  who 
deduced  our  best  actions  from  pride,  I  will  not  here  presume 
to  determine.  In  reality,  I  am  inclined  to  suspect,  that  all  these 
several  finders  of  truth  are  the  very  identical  men,  who  are  by 
others  called  the  finders  of  gold.  The  method  used  in  both 
these  searches  after  truth  and  after  gold,  being,  indeed,  one  and 
the  same,  viz.  the  searching,  rummaging,  and  examining  into  a 
nasty  place ;  indeed,  in  the  former  instances,  into  the  nastiest  of 
all  places,  a  bad  mind. 

But  though  in  this  particular,  and,  perhaps,  in  their  success,  the 
truth-finder  and  the  gold-finder  may  very  properly  be  compared 
together ;  yet,  in  modesty,  surely,  there  can  be  no  comparison 
between  the  two :  for  whoever  heard  of  a  gold-finder  that  had  the 
impudence  or  folly  to  assert,  from  the  ill-success  of  his  search, 
that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  gold  in  the  world?  Whereas  the 
truth-finder,  having  raked  out  that  jakes,  his  own  mind,  and  being 
there  capable  of  tracing  no  ray  of  divinity,  nor  anything  virtuous 
or  good,  or  lovely  or  loving,  very  fairly,  honestly,  and  logically, 
concludes,  that  no  such  things  exist  in  the  whole  creation. 

To  avoid,  however,  all  contention,  if  possible,  with  these 
philosophers,  if  they  will  be  called  so,  and  to  show  our  own  dis- 
position to  accommodate  matters  peaceably  between  us,  we  shall 
here  make  them  some  concessions,  which  may,  possibly,  put  an 
end  to  the  dispute. 

First,  we  will  grant  that  many  minds,  and  perhaps  those  of  the 
philosophers,  are  entirely  free  from  the  least  traces  of  such  a 
passion. 

Secondly,  that  what  is  commonly  called  love,  namely,  the 
desire  of  satisfying  a  voracious  appetite  with  a  certain  quantity  of 
delicate  white  human  flesh,  is  by  no  means  that  passion  for  which 
I  here  contend.  This  is,  indeed,  more  properly  hunger ;  and,  as 
no  glutton  is  ashamed  to  apply  the  word  love  to  his  appetite,  and 
to  say  he  loves  such  and  such  dishes ;  so  may  the  lover  of  this 
kind,  with  equal  propriety,  say,  he  hungers  after  such  and  such 
women. 


TOM  JONES,  191 

Thirdly,  I  will  grant,  which,  I  believe,  will  be  a  most  acceptable 
concession,  that  this  love  for  which  I  am  an  advocate,  though  it 
satisfies  itself  in  a  much  more  delicate  manner,  doth  neverthe- 
less seek  its  own  satisfaction  as  much  as  the  grossest  of  all  our 
appetites. 

And,  lastly,  that  this  love,  when  it  operates  towards  one  of  a 
different  sex,  is  very  apt,  towards  its  complete  gratification,  to  call 
in  the  aid  of  that  hunger  which  I  have  mentioned  above ;  and 
which  it  is  so  far  from  abating,  that  it  heightens  all  its  delights  to 
a  degree  scarce  imaginable  by  those  who  have  never  been  sus- 
ceptible of  any  other  emotions  than  what  have  proceeded  from 
appetite  alone. 

In  return  to  all  these  concessions,  I  desire  of  the  philosophers 
to  grant,  that  there  is  in  some  (I  believe  m  many)  human  breasts 
a  kind  and  benevolent  disposition,  which  is  gratified  by  contribut- 
ing to  the  happiness  of  others.  That  in  this  gratification  alone, 
as  in  friendship,  in  parental  and  filial  affection,  as,  indeed,  in  gen- 
eral philanthropy,  there  is  a  great  and  exquisite  delight.  That  if 
we  will  not  call  such  disposition  love,  we  have  no  name  for  it. 
That  though  the  pleasures  arising  from  such  pure  love  may  be 
heightened  and  sweetened  by  the  assistance  of  amorous  desires, 
yet  the  former  can  subsist  alone,  nor  are  they  destroyed  by  the 
intervention  of  the  latter.  Lastly,  that  esteem  and  gratitude  are 
the  proper  motives  to  love,  as  youth  and  beauty  are  to  desire ; 
and,  therefore,  though  such  desire  may  naturally  cease,  when  age 
or  sickness  overtakes  its  object,  yet  these  can  have  no  effect  on 
love,  nor  ever  shake  or  remove,  from  a  good  mind,  that  sensation 
or  passion  which  hath  gratitude  and  esteem  for  its  basis. 

To  deny  the  existence  of  a  passion  of  which  we  often  see 
manifest  instances,  seems  to  be  very  strange  and  absurd ;  and 
can,  indeed,  proceed  only  from  that  self-admonition  which  we 
have  mentioned  above  :  but  how  unfair  is  this  !  Doth  the  man 
who  recognises  in  his  own  heart  no  traces  of  avarice  or  ambition  . 
conclude,  therefore,  that  there  are  tio  such  passions  in  human, 
nature?  Why  will  we  not  modestly  observe  the  same  rule  in 
judging  of  the  good,  as  well  as  the  evil,  of  others?     Or  why,  in 


192  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

any  case,  will  we,  as  Shakespeare  phrases  it,  *'put  the  world  in 
our  own  person"? 

Predominant  vanity  is,  I  am  afraid,  too  much  concerned  here. 
This  is  one  instance  of  that  adulation  which  we  bestow  on  our 
minds,  and  this  almost  universally.  For  there  is  scarce  any  man, 
how  much  soever  he  may  despise  the  character  of  a  flatterer,  but 
will  condescend  in  the  meanest  manner  to  flatter  himself. 

To  those,  therefore,  I  apply  for  the  truth  of  the  above  obser- 
vations, whose  own  minds  can  bear  testimony  to  what  I  have 
advanced. 

Examine  your  heart,  my  good  reader,  and  resolve  whether  you 
do  believe  these  matters  with  me.  If  you  do,  you  may  now 
proceed  to  their  exemplification  in  the  following  pages;  if  you 
do  not,  you  have,  I  assure  you,  already  read  more  than  you  have 
understood;  and  it  would  be  wiser  to  pursue  your  business,  or 
your  pleasures,  (such  as  they  are,)  than  to  throw  away  any  more 
of  your  time  in  reading  what  you  can  neither  taste  or  compre- 
hend. To  treat  of  the  effects  of  love  to  you,  must  be  as  absurd 
as  to  discourse  on  colours  to  a  man  born  blind ;  since  possibly, 
your  idea  of  love  may  be  as  absurd  as  that  which  we  are  told 
such  blind  man  once  entertained  of  the  colour  scarlet ;  that  colour 
seemed  to  him  to  be  very  much  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet : 
and  love  probably  may,  in  your  opinion,  very  greatly  resemble  a 
dish  of  soup,  or  a  sirloin  of  roast-beef. 

CHAPTER   II. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  MRS.  WESTERN.  HER  GREAT  LEARNING  AND 
KNOWLEDGE  OF  THE  WORLD,  AND  AN  INSTANCE  OF  THE  DEEP 
PENETRATION   WHICH   SHE   DERIVED    FROM   THOSE   ADVANTAGES. 

The  reader  hath  seen  Mr.  Western,  his  sister,  and  daughter, 
with  young  Jones,  and  the  parson,  going  together  to  Mr.  Western's 
house,  where  the  greater  part  of  the  company  spent  the  evening 
with  much  joy  and  festivity.  Sophia  was,  indeed,  the  only  grave 
person  ;  for,  as  to  Jones,  though  love  had  now  gotten  entire  pos- 


TOM  JONES.  193 

session  of  his  heart,  yet  the  pleasing  reflection  on  Mr.  Allworthy's 
recovery,  and  the  presence  of  his  mistress,  joined  to  some  tender 
looks  which  she  now  and  then  could  not  refrain  from  giving  him, 
so  elevated  our  hero,  that  he  joined  the  mirth  of  the  other  three, 
who  were,  perhaps,  as  good-humoured  people  as  any  in  the  world. 
Sophia  retained  the  same  gravity  of  countenance  the  next 
morning  at  breakfast ;  whence  she  retired  likewise  earlier  than 
usual,  leaving  her  father  and  aunt  together.  The  squire  took  no 
notice  at  this  change  in  his  daughter's  disposition.  To  say  the 
truth,  though  he  was  somewhat  of  a  politician,  and  had  been 
twice  a  candidate  in  the  country  interest  at  an  election,  he  was  a 
man  of  no  great  observation.  His  sister  was  a  lady  of  a  different 
turn.  She  had  lived  about  the  court,  and  had  seen  the  world. 
Hence  she  had  acquired  all  that  knowledge  which  the  world 
usually  communicates;  and  was  a  perfect  mistress  of  manners, 
customs,  ceremonies,  and  fashions.  Nor  did  her  erudition  stop 
here.  She  had  considerably  improved  her  mind  by  study:  she 
had  not  only  read  all  the  modern  plays,  operas,  oratorios,  poems, 
and  romances,  in  all  which  she  was  a  critic  ;  but  had  gone  through 
Rapin's  History  of  England,  Echard's  Roman  History,  and  many 
French  Memoires  pour  sennr  a  PHistoire  :  To  these  she  added 
most  of  the  political  pamphlets  and  journals  published  within  the 
last  twenty  years.  From  which  she  had  attained  a  very  competent 
skill  in  politics,  and  could  discourse  very  learnedly  on  the  affairs 
of  Europe.  She  was,  moreover,  excellently  well  skilled  in  the 
doctrine  of  amour,  and  knew  better  than  anybody  who  and  who 
were  together ;  a  knowledge  which  she  more  easily  attained,  as 
her  pursuit  of  it  was  never  diverted  by  any  affairs  of  her  own : 
for  either  she  had  no  inclinations,  or  they  had  never  been  soli- 
cited ;  which  last  is,  indeed,  very  probable ;  for  her  masculine 
person,  which  was  near  six  feet  high,  added  to  her  manner  and 
learning,  possibly  prevented  the  other  sex  from  regarding  her, 
notwithstanding  her  petticoats,  in  the  light  of  a  woman.  How- 
ever, as  she  had  considered  the  matter  scientifically,  she  perfectly 
well  knew,  though  she  had  never  practised  them,  all  the  arts 
which  fine  ladies  use  when  they  desire  to  give  encouragement,  or 

13 


194  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

to  conceal  liking,  with  all  the  long  appendage  of  smiles,  ogles, 
glances,  &c.  as  they  are  at  present  practised  in  the  beau-monde. 
To  sum  the  whole,  no  species  of  disguise  or  affectation  had  es- 
caped her  notice ;  but,  as  to  the  plain  simple  workings  of  honest 
nature,  as  she  had  never  seen  any  such,  she  could  know  but  little 
of  them. 

By  means  of  this  wonderful  sagacity,  Mrs.  Western  had  now,  as 
she  thought,  made  a  discovery  of  something  in  the  mind  of  Sophia. 
The  first  hint  of  this  she  took  from  the  behaviour  of  the  young 
lady  in  the  field  of  battle  :  and  the  suspicion,  which  she  then  con- 
ceived, was  greatly  corroborated  by  some  observations  which  she 
had  made  that  evening  and  the  next  morning.  However,  being 
greatly  cautious  to  avoid  being  found  in  a  mistake,  she  carried  the 
secret  a  whole  fortnight  in  her  bosom,  giving  only  some  oblique 
hints,  by  simpering,  winks,  nods,  and  now  and  then  dropping  an 
obscure  word,  which,  indeed,  sufficiently  alarmed  Sophia,  but  did 
not  at  all  affect  her  brother. 

Being  at  length,  however,  thoroughly  satisfied  with  the  truth  of 
her  observation,  she  took  an  opportunity,  one  morning,  when  she 
was  alone  with  her  brother,  to  interrupt  one  of  his  whistles  in 
the  following  manner  :  — 

"Pray,  brother,  have  you  not  observed  something  very  extra- 
ordinary in  my  niece  lately?  "  "  No,  not  I,'*  answered  Western ; 
"is  anything  the  matter  with  the  girl?"  "I  think  there  is," 
replied  she;  "and  something  of  much  consequence,  too." 
"  Why,  she  doth  not  complain  of  anything,"  cries  Western  ;  "  and 
she  hath  had  the  small-pox."  "  Brother,"  returned  she,  "  girls  are 
liable  to  other  distempers  besides  the  small-pox,  and  sometimes 
possibly  to  much  worse."  Here  Western  interrupted  her  with 
much  earnestness,  and  begged  her,  if  anything  ailed  his  daughter, 
to  acquaint  him  immediately,  adding,  "  she  knew  he  loved  her 
more  than  his  own  soul,  and  that  he  would  send  to  the  world's  end 
for  the  best  physician  to  her."  "  Nay,  nay,"  answered  she  smil- 
ing, "  the  distemper  is  not  so  terrible ;  but  I  believe,  brother,  that 
you  are  convinced  I  know  the  world,  and  I  promise  you  I  was 
never  more  deceived  in  my  life,  if  my  niece  be  not  most  des- 


TOM  JONES,  195 

perately  in  love."  "  How  !  in  love,"  cries  Western  in  a  passion ; 
"  in  love,  without  acquainting  me  !  I'll  disinherit  her ;  I'll  turn 
her  out  of  doors  stark  naked,  without  a  farthing.  Is  all  my 
kindness  vor  'ur,  and  vondess  o'  'ur  come  to  this,  to  fall  in  love 
without  asking  me  leave?"  "But  you  will  not,"  answered  Mrs. 
Western,  "turn  this  daughter,  whom  you  love  better  than  your 
own  soul,  out  of  doors,  before  you  know  whether  you  shall  approve 
her  choice.  Suppose  she  should  have  fixed  on  the  very  person 
whom  you  yourself  would  wish,  I  hope  you  would  not  be  angry 
then?"  "No,  no,"  cries  Western,  "that  would  make  a  differ- 
ence. If  she  marries  the  man  I  would  ha'  her,  she  may  love 
whom  she  pleases,  I  shan't  trouble  my  head  about  that.'*  "That 
is  spoken,"  answered  the  sister,  "  like  a  sensible  man ;  but  I 
believe  the  very  person  she  hath  chosen  would  be  the  very  person 
you  would  choose  for  her.  I  will  disclaim  all  knowledge  of  the 
world,  if  it  is  not  so  \  and  I  believe,  brother,  you  will  allow  I 
have  some."  "Why,  lookee,  sister,"  said  Western,  "I  do  be- 
lieve you  have  as  much  as  any  woman ;  and  to  be  sure  those 
are  women's  matters.  You  know  I  don't  love  to  hear  you  talk 
about  politics ;  they  belong  to  us,  and  petticoats  should  not 
meddle;  but  come,  who  is  the  man?"  " Marry !"  said  she, 
"  you  may  find  him  out  yourself  if  you  please.  You,  who  are  so 
great  a  politician,  can  be  at  no  great  loss.  The  judgment  which 
can  penetrate  into  the  cabinets  of  princes,  and  discover  the  secret 
springs  which  move  the  great  state  wheels  in  all  the  political 
machines  of  Europe,  must  surely,  with  very  little  difficulty,  find 
out  what  passes  in  the  rude  uninformed  mind  of  a  girl."  "Sis- 
ter," cries  the  squire,  "  I  have  often  warned  you  not  to  talk  the 
court  gibberish  to  me.  I  tell  you,  I  don't  understand  the  lingo ; 
but  I  can  read  a  journal,  or  the  London  Evening  Post.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  there  may  be  now  and  tan  a  verse  which  I  can't  make 
much  of,  because  half  the  letters  are  left  out ;  yet  I  know  very 
well  what  is  meant  by  that,  and  that  our  affairs  don't  go  so  well 
as  they  should  do,  because  of  bribery  and  corruption."  "  I 
pity  your  country  ignorance  from  my  heart,"  cries  the  lady. 
"Do  you?"  answered  Western;  "and  I  pity  your  town  learn- 


ig6  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

ing :  I  had  rather  be  anything  than  a  courtier,  and  a  Presby- 
terian, and  a  Hanoverian,  too,  as  some  people,  I  beHeve,  are." 
"  If  you  mean  me,"  answered  she,  "  you  know  I  am  a  woman, 
brother ;  and  it  signifies  nothing  what  I  am.  Besides  —  "  "I 
do  know  you  are  a  woman,"  cries  the  squire,  "and  it's  well 
for  thee  that  art  one ;  if  hadst  been  a  man,  I  promise  thee  I 
had  lent  thee  a  flick  long  age."  "Ay,  there,"  said  she,  "in 
that  flick  lies  all  your  fancied  superiority.  Your  bodies,  and  not 
your  brains,  are  stronger  than  ours.  Believe  me,  it  is  well  for 
you  that  you  are  able  to  beat  us ;  or,  such  is  the  superiority  of 
our  understanding,  we  should  make  all  of  you  what  the  brave,  and 
wise,  and  witty,  and  polite,  are  already  —  our  sMves."  "  I  am 
glad  I  know  your  mind,"  answered  the-  squire.  "  But  we'll  talk 
more  of  this  matter  another  time.  At  present,  do  tell  me  what 
man  is  it  you  mean  about  my  daughter."  "  Hold  a  moment," 
said  she,  "  while  I  digest  that  sovereign  contempt  I  have  for 
your  sex ;  or  else  I  ought  to  be  angry,  too,  with  you.  There  — 
I  have  made  a  shift  to  gulp  it  down.  And  now,  good  politic 
Sir,  what  think  you  of  Mr.  Blifil?  Did  she  not  faint  away  on 
seeing  him  lie  breathless  on  the  ground?  Did  she  not,  after  he 
was  recovered,  turn  pale  again  the  moment  we  came  up  to  that 
part  of  the  field  where  he  stood?  And  pray  what  else  should 
be  the  occasion  of  all  her  melancholy  that  night  at  supper,  the 
next  morning,  and,  indeed,  ever  since?"  "'Fore  George!'* 
cries  the  squire,  "  now  you  mind  me  on't,  I  remember  it  all.  It 
is  certainly  so,  and  I  am  glad  on't  with  all  my  heart.  I  knew 
Sophy  was  a  good  girl,  and  would  not  fall  in  love  to  make  me 
angry.  I  was  never  more  rejoiced  in  my  life  :  for  nothing  can 
lie  so  handy  together  as  our  two  estates.  I  had  this  matter  in 
my  head  some  time  ago ;  for  certainly  the  two  estates  are  in  a 
manner  joined  together  in  matrimony  already,  and  it  would  be 
a  thousand  pities  to  part  them.  It  is  true,  indeed,  there  be  lar- 
ger estates  in  the  kingdom,  but  not  in  this  country ;  and  I  had 
rather  bate  something,  than  marry  my  daughter  among  strangers 
and  foreigners.  Besides,  most  o'  zuch  great  estates  be  in  the 
hands  of  lords,  and  I  hate  the  very  name  of  themmun.     Well  but, 


TOM  JONES.  197 

sister,  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do ;  for  I  tell  you  women 
know  these  matters  better  than  we  do?"  —  "Oh,  your  humble 
servant,  sir,"  answered  the  lady:  "we  are  obliged  to  you  for 
allowing  us  a  capacity  in  anything.  Since  you  are  pleased  then, 
most  politic  sir,  to  ask  my  advice,  I  think  you  may  propose  the 
match  to  Mr.  Allworthy  yourself.  There  is  no  indecorum  in  the 
proposals  coming  from  the  parent  of  either  side.  King  Alcinous, 
in  Mr.  Pope's  Odyssey,  offers  his  daughter  to  Ulysses.  I  need 
not  caution  so  politic  a  person  to  say  that  your  daughter  is  in 
love  ;  that  would  indeed  be  against  all  rules."  —  "  Well,"  said  the 
squire,  "I  will  propose  it;  but  I  shall  certainly  lend  un  a  flick 
if  he  should  refuse  me."  — "  Fear  not,"  cries  Mrs.  Western : 
"  the  match  is  too  advantageous  to  be  refused."  —  "I  don't  know 
that,"  answered  the  squire  :  "  Allworthy  is  a  queer  b — ch,  and 
money  hath  no  effect  o'  un."  —  "  Brother,"  said  the  lady,  "your 
politics  astonish  me.  Are  you  really  to  be  imposed  on  by  pro- 
fessions? Do  you  think  Mr.  Allworthy  hath  more  contempt  for 
money  than  other  men,  because  he  professes  more?  Such  cre- 
dulity would  better  become  one  of  us  weak  women,  than  that  wise 
sex  which  Heaven  hath  formed  for  politicians.  Indeed,  brother, 
you  would  make  a  fine  plenipo  to  negotiate  with  the  French. 
They  would  soon  persuade  you,  that  they  take  towns  out  of 
mere  defensive  principles."  —  "Sister,"  answered  the  squire,  with 
much  scorn,  "let  your  friends  at  court  answer  for  the  towns 
taken ;  as  you  are  a  woman,  I  shall  lay  no  blame  upon  you ;  for 
I  suppose  they  are  wiser  than  to  trust  women  with  secrets."  He 
accompanied  this  with  so  sarcastical  a  laugh,  that  Mrs.  Western 
could  bear  no  longer.  She  had  been  all  this  time  fretted  in  a 
tender  part,  (for  she  was  indeed  very  deeply  skilled  in  these  mat- 
ters, and  very  violent  in  them,)  and  therefore  burst  forth  in  a 
rage,  declared  her  brother  to  be  both  a  clown  and  a  blockhead, 
and  that  she  would  stay  no  longer  in  his  house. 

The  squire,  though  perhaps  he  had  never  read  Machiavel,  was, 
however,  in  many  points,  a  perfect  politician-  He  strongly  held 
all  those  wise  tenets,  which  are  so  well  inculcated  in  that  Poli- 
tico-Peripatetic  school   of  Exchange-alley.     He  knew  the  just 


198  STUDY  OB   ENGLISH  FICTION. 

value  and  only  use  of  money,  viz.,  to  lay  it  up.  He  was  likewise 
well  skilled  in  the  exact  value  of  reversions,  expectations,  &c., 
and  had  often  considered  the  amount  of  his  sister's  fortune,  and 
the  chance  which  he  or  his  posterity  had  of  inheriting  it.  This 
he  was  infinitely  too  wise  to  sacrifice  to  a  trifling  resentment. 
When  he  found,  therefore,  he  had  carried  matters  too  far,  he 
began  to  think  of  reconcihng  them ;  which  was  no  very  difficult 
task,  as  the  lady  had  great  affection  for  her  brother,  and  still 
greater  for  her  niece ;  and  though  too  susceptible  of  an  affront 
offered  to  her  skill  in  politics,  on  which  she  much  valued  herself, 
was  a  woman  of  a  very  extraordinary  good  and  sweet  disposition. 

Having  first,  therefore,  laid  violent  hands  on  the  horses,  for 
whose  escape  from  the  stable  no  place  but  the  window  was  left 
open,  he  next  applied  himself  to  his  sister,  softened  and  soothed 
her,  by  unsaying  all  he  had  said,  and  by  assertions  directly  con- 
trary to  those  which  had  incensed  her.  Lastly,  he  summoned  the 
eloquence  of  Sophia  to  his  assistance,  who,  besides  a  most  grace- 
ful and  winning  address,  had  the  advantage  of  being  heard  with 
great  favor  and  partiality  by  her  aunt. 

The  result  of  the  whole  was  a  kind  smile  from  Mrs.  Western, 
who  said,  "  Brother,  you  are  absolutely  a  perfect  Croat ;  but  as 
those  have  their  use  in  the  army  of  the  empress  queen,  so  you 
likewise  have  some  good  in  you.  I  will,  therefore,  once  more 
sign  a  treaty  of  peace  with  you,  and  see  that  you  do  not  infringe 
it  on  your  side  ;  at  least,  as  you  are  so  excellent  a  politician,  I 
may  expect  you  will  keep  your  leagues,  like  the  French,  till  your 
interest  calls  upon  you  to  break  them." 


CHAPTER   HI. 

CONTAINING    TWO    DEFIANCES    TO  THE    CRITICS. 

The  squire  having  settled  matters  with  his  sister,  as  we  have 
seen  in  the  last  chapter,  was  so  greatly  impatient  to  communicate 
the  proposal  to  Allworthy,  that  Mrs.  Western  had  the  utmost  dif- 


TOM  JONES.  199 

ficulty  to  prevent  him  from  visiting  that  gentleman  in  his  sick- 
ness for  this  purpose. 

Mr.  AUworthy  had  been  engaged  to  dine  with  Mr.  Western  at 
the  time  when  he  was  taken  ill.  He  was  therefore  no  sooner  dis- 
charged out  of  the  custody  of  physic,  but  he  thought,  (as  was 
usual  with  him  on  all  occasions,  both  the  highest  and  the  lowest,) 
of  fulfilling  his  engagement. 

In  the  interval  between  the  time  of  the  dialogue  in  the  last 
chapter,  and  this  day  of  public  entertainment,  Sophia  had,  from 
certain  obscure  hints  thrown  out  by  her  aunt,  collected  some 
apprehension  that  the  sagacious  lady  suspected  her  passion  for 
Jones.  She  now  resolved  to  take  this  opportunity  of  wiping  out 
all  such  suspicion,  and  for  that  purpose  to  put  an  entire  constraint 
on  her  behavior. 

First,  she  endeavoured  to  conceal  a  throbbing  melancholy  heart 
with  the  utmost  sprightliness  in  her  countenance,  and  the  highest 
gayety  in  her  manner.  Secondly,  she  addressed  her  whole  dis- 
course to  Mr.  Blifil,  and  took  not  the  least  notice  of  poor  Jones 
the  whole  day. 

The  squire  was  so  delighted  with  this  conduct  of  his  daughter, 
that  he  scarce  ate  any  dinner,  and  spent  almost  his  whole  time  in 
watching  opportunities  of  conveying  signs  of  his  approbation  by 
winks  and  nods  to  his  sister,  who  was  not  at  first  altogether  so 
pleased  with  what  she  saw  as  was  her  brother. 

In  short,  Sophia  so  greatly  overacted  her  part,  that  her  aunt 
was  at  first  staggered,  and  began  to  suspect  some  affection  in  her 
niece ;  but  as  she  was  herself  a  woman  of  great  art,  so  she  soon 
attributed  this  to  extreme  art  in  Sophia.  She  remembered  the 
many  hints  she  had  given  her  niece  concerning  her  being  in 
love,  and  imagined  the  young  lady  had  taken  this  way  to  rally  her 
out  of  her  opinion,  by  an  overacted  civility ;  a  notion  that  was 
greatly  corroborated  by  the  excessive  gayety  with  which  the  w^hole 
was  accompanied.  We  cannot  here  avoid  remarking,  that  this 
conjecture  would  have  been  better  founded  had  Sophia  lived  ten 
years  in  the  air  of  Grosvenor  Square,  where  young  ladies  do  learn 
a  wonderful  knack  of  rallying  and  playing  with  that  passion,  which 


200  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

is  a  mighty  serious  thing  in  woods  and  groves  an  hundred  miles 
distant  from  London. 

To  say  the  truth,  in  discovering  the  deceit  of  others,  it  matters 
much  that  our  own  art  be  wound  up,  if  I  may  use  the  expres- 
sion, in  the  same  key  with  theirs ;  for  very  artful  men  sometimes 
miscarry  by  fancying  others  wiser,  or,  in  other  words,  greater 
knaves  than  they  really  are.  As  this  observation  is  pretty  deep,  I 
will  illustrate  it  by  the  following  short  story.  Three  countrymen 
were  pursuing  a  Wiltshire  thief  through  Brentford.  The  simplest 
of  them,  seeing  "the  Wiltshire  house,"  written  under  a  sign,  ad- 
vised his  companion  to  enter  it,  for  there  most  probably  they 
would  find  their  countryman.  The  second,  who  was  wiser, 
laughed  at  this  simplicity;  but  the  third,  who  was  wiser  still, 
answered,  "  Let  us  go  in,  however,  for  he  may  think  we  should 
not  suspect  him  of  going  amongst  his  own  countrymen."  They 
accordingly  went  in,  and  searched  the  house,  and  by  that  means 
missed  overtaking  the  thief,  who  was  at  that  time  but  a  little  way 
before  them ;  and  who,  as  they  all  knew,  but  had  never  once 
reflected,  could  not  read. 

The  reader  will  pardon  a  digression  in  which  so  invaluable  a 
secret  is  communicated,  since  every  gamester  will  agree  how 
necessary  it  is  to  know  exactly  the  play  of  another,  in  order  to 
countermine  him.  This  will,  moreover,  afford  a  reason,  why  the 
wiser  man,  as  is  often  seen,  is  the  bubble  of  the  weaker,  and  why 
many  simple  and  innocent  characters  are  so  generally  misunder- 
stood and  misrepresented ;  but  what  is  more  material,  this  will 
account  for  the  deceit  which  Sophia  put  on  her  politic  aunt. 

Dinner  being  ended,  and  the  company  retired  into  the  garden, 
Mr.  Western,  who  was  thoroughly  convinced  of  the  certainty  of 
what  his  sister  had  told  him,  took  Mr.  Allworthy  aside,  and  very 
bluntly  proposed  a  match  between  Sophia  and  young  Mr.  Blifil. 

Mr.  Allworthy  was  not  one  of  those  men  whose  hearts  flutter  at 
any  unexpected  and  sudden  tidings  of  worldly  profit.  His  mind 
was,  indeed,  tempered  with  that  philosophy  which  becomes  a 
man  and  a  Christian.  He  affected  no  absolute  superiority  to  all 
pleasure  and  pain,  to  all  joy  and  grief;  but  was  not  at  the  same 


TOM  JONES,  201 

time  to  be  discomposed  and  ruffled  by  every  accidental  blast,  by 
every  smile  or  frown  of  fortune.  He  received,  therefore,  Mr. 
Western's  proposal  without  any  visible  emotion,  or  without  any 
alteration  of  countenance.  He  said,  the  alliance  was  such  as  he 
sincerely  wished ;  then  launched  forth  into  a  very  just  encomium 
of  the  young  lady's  merit ;  acknowledged  the  offer  to  be  advan- 
tageous in  point  of  fortune ;  and  after  thanking  Mr.  Western  for 
the  good  opinion  he  had  professed  of  his  nephew,  concluded, 
that  if  the  young  people  liked  each  other,  he  should  be  very 
desirous  to  complete  the  affair. 

Western  was  a  little  disappointed  at  Mr.  Allworthy's  answer, 
which  was  not  so  warm  as  he  expected.  He  treated  the  doubt 
whether  the  young  people  might  like  one  another  with  great  con- 
tempt ;  saying,  '*  That  parents  were  the  best  judges  of  proper 
matches  for  their  children;  that,  for  his  part,  he  should  insist 
on  the  most  resigned  obedience  from  his  daughter ;  and  if  any 
young  fellow  could  refuse  such  a  bedfellow,  he  was  his  humble 
servant,  and  hoped  there  was  no  harm  done." 

Allworthy  endeavoured  to  soften  this  resentment  by  many  eulo- 
giums  on  Sophia,  declaring  he  had  no  doubt  but  that  Mr.  Blifil 
would  very  gladly  receive  the  offer ;  but  all  was  ineffectual :  he 
could  obtain  no  other  answer  from  the  squire  but  —  "  I'll  say  no 
more  —  I  humbly  hope  there's  no  harm  done  —  that's  all." 
Which  words  he  repeated  at  least  a  hundred  times  before  they 
parted. 

Allworthy  was  too  well  acquainted  with  his  neighbor  to  be 
offended  at  this  behaviour ;  and  though  he  was  so  averse  to  the 
rigour  which  some  parents  exercise  on  their  children  in  the  article 
of  marriage,  that  he  had  resolved  never  to  force  his  nephew's 
inclinations,  he  was  nevertheless  much  pleased  with  the  prospect 
of  this  union ;  for  the  whole  country  resounded  the  praises  of 
Sophia,  and  he  had  himself  greatly  admired  the  uncommon  en- 
dowments of  both  her  mind  and  person.  To  which,  I  believe  we 
may  add,  the  consideration  of  her  vast  fortune,  which,  though  he 
was  too  sober  to  be  intoxicated  with  it,  he  was  too  sensible  to 
despise. 


202  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

And  here,  in  defiance  of  all  the  barking  critics  in  the  world,  I 
must  and  will  introduce  a  digression  concerning  true  wisdom,  of 
which  Mr.  Allworthy  was  in  reality  as  great  a  pattern  as  he  was  of 
goodness. 

True  wisdom,  then,  notwithstanding  all  which  Mr.  Hogarth's 
poor  poet  may  have  writ  against  riches,  and  in  spite  of  all  which 
any  rich  well-fed  divine  may  have  preached  against  pleasure,  con- 
sists not  in  the  contempt  of  either  of  these.  A  man  may  have  as 
much  wisdom  in  the  possession  of  an  affluent  fortune,  as  any  beg- 
gar in  the  streets ;  or  may  enjoy  a  handsome  wife,  or  a  hearty 
friend,  and  still  remain  as  wise  as  any  popish  recluse,  who  buries 
all  his  social  faculties,  and  starves  his  belly,  while  he  well  lashes 
his  back. 

To  say  the  truth,  the  wisest  man  is  the  hkeliest  to  possess  all 
worldly  blessings  in  an  eminent  degree  :  for  as  that  moderation 
which  wisdom  prescribes  is  the  surest  way  to  useful  wealth,  so 
can  it  alone  qualify  us  to  taste  many  pleasures.  The  wise  man 
gratifies  every  appetite  and  every  passion,  while  the  fool  sacrifices 
all  the  rest  to  pall  and  satiate  one. 

It  may  be  objected,  that  very  wise  men  have  been  notoriously 
avaricious.  I  answer,  not  wise  in  that  instance.  It  may  likewise 
be  said,  that  the  wisest  men  have  been  in  their  youth  moderately 
fond  of  pleasure.     I  answer,  they  were  not  wise  then. 

Wisdom,  in  short,  whose  lessons  have  been  represented  as  so 
hard  to  learn  by  those  who  never  were  at  her  school,  only  teaches 
to  extend  a  simple  maxim,  universally  known  and  followed  even 
in  the  lowest  life,  a  little  farther  than  life  carries  it.  And  this 
is,  not  to  buy  at  too  dear  a  price. 

Now,  whoever  takes  this  maxim  abroad  with  him  into  the 
grand  market  of  the  world,  and  constantly  applies  it  to  honours, 
to  riches,  to  pleasures,  and  to  every  other  commodity  which  that 
market  affords,  is,  I  will  venture  to  affirm,  a  wise  man,  and  must 
be  so  acknowledged  in  the  worldly  sense  of  the  word  :  for  he 
makes  the  best  of  bargains ;  since  in  reality  he  purchases  every- 
thing at  the  price  only  of  a  little  trouble,  and  carries  home  all  the 
good  things  I  have  mentioned,  while  he  keeps  his  health,  his  in- 


TOM  JONES.  203 

nocence,  and  his  reputation,  the  common  prices  which  are  paid 
for  them  by  others,  entire  and  to  himself. 

P'rom  this  moderation,  hkewise,  he  learns  two  other  lessons, 
which  complete  his  character.  First,  never  to  be  intoxicated 
when  he  hath  made  the  best  bargain,  nor  dejected  when  the 
market  is  empty,  or  when  its  commodities  are  too  dear  for  his 
purchase. 

But  I  must  remember  on  what  subject  I  am  writing,  and  not  to 
trespass  too  far  on  the  patience  of  a  good-natured  critic.  Here, 
therefore,  I  put  an  end  to  the  chapter. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONTAINING   SUNDRY   CURIOUS   MATTERS.  . 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Allworthy  returned  home,  he  took  Mr.  Blifil 
apart,  and,  after  some  preface,  communicated  to  him  the  pro- 
posal which  had  been  made  by  Mr.  Western,  and  at  the  same 
time  informed  him  how  agreeable  this  match  would  be  to  himself. 

The  charms  of  Sophia  had  not  made  the  least  impression  on 
Blifil :  not  that  his  heart  was  pre-engaged  ;  neither  was  he  totally 
insensible  of  beauty,  or  had  any  aversion  to  women ;  but  his 
appetites  were  by  nature  so  moderate,  that  he  was  able,  by  phi- 
losophy, or  by  study,  or  by  some  other  method,  easily  to  subdue 
them ;  and  as  to  that  passion  which  we  have  treated  of  in  the 
first  chapter  of  this  book,  he  had  not  the  least  tincture  of  it  in 
his  whole  composition. 

But  though  he  was  so  entirely  free  from  that  mixed  passion,  of 
which  we  there  treated,  and  of  which  the  virtues  and  beauty  of 
Sophia  formed  so  notable  an  object,  yet  was  he  altogether  as  well 
furnished  with  some  other  passions,  that  promised  themselves 
very  full  gratification  in  the  young  lady's  fortune.  Such  were 
avarice  and  ambition,  which  divided  the  dominion  of  his  mind 
between  them.     He  had  more  than  once  considered  the  posses- 


204  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

sion  of  this  fortune  as  a  very  desirable  thing,  and  had  entertained 
some  distant  views  concerning  it ;  but  his  own  youth,  and  that 
of  the  young  lady,  and  indeed,  principally,  a  reflection  that 
Mr.  Western  might  marry  again,  and  have  more  children,  had 
restrained  him  from  too  hasty  or  eager  a  pursuit. 

This  last  and  more  material  objection  was  now  in  a  great  meas- 
ure removed,  as  the  proposal  came  from  Mr.  Western  himself. 
Bliiil,  therefore,  after  a  very  short  hesitation,  answered  Mr.  All- 
worthy,  that  matrimony  was  a  subject  on  which  he  had  not  yet 
thought ;  but  that  he  was  so  sensible  of  his  friendly  and  fatherly 
care,  that  he  should  in  all  things  submit  himself  to  his  pleasure. 

AUworthy  was  naturally  a  man  of  spirit,  and  his  present  gravity 
arose  from  true  wisdom  and  philosophy,  not  from  any  original 
phlegm  in  his  disposition ;  for  he  had  possessed  much  fire  in  his 
youth,  and  had  married  a  beautiful  woman  for  love.  He  was  not, 
therefore,  greatly  pleased  with  this  cold  answer  of  his  nephew ; 
nor  could  he  help  launching  forth  into  the  praises  of  Sophia,  and 
expressing  some  wonder  that  the  heart  of  a  young  man  could  be 
impregnable  to  the  force  of  such  charms,  unless  it  was  guarded 
by  some  prior  affection. 

Blifil  assured  him  he  had  no  such  guard  ;  and  then  proceeded 
to  discourse  so  wisely  and  religiously  on  love  and  marriage,  that 
he  would  have  stopped  the  mouth  of  a  parent  much  less  devoutly 
inclined  than  was  his  uncle.  In  the  end,  the  good  man  was  sat- 
isfied, that  his  nephew,  far  from  having  any  objection  to  Sophia, 
had  that  esteem  for  her,  which  in  sober  and  virtuous  minds  is  the 
sure  foundation  of  friendship  and  love.  And  as  he  doubted  not 
but  the  lover  would,  in  a  little  time,  become  altogether  as  agree- 
able to  his  mistress,  he  foresaw  great  happiness  arising  to  all 
parties  by  so  proper  and  desirable  an  union.  With  Mr.  Blifil's 
consent,  therefore,  he  wrote  the  next  morning  to  Mr.  Western, 
acquainting  him  that  his  nephew  had  very  thankfully  and  gladly 
received  the  proposal,  and  would  be  ready  to  wait  on  the  young 
lady,  whenever  she  should  be  pleased  to  accept  his  visit. 

Western  was  much  pleased  with  this  letter,  and  immediately 
returned  an  answer ;  in  which,  without  having  mentioned  a  word 


TOM  JONES.  205 

to  his  daughter,  he  appointed  that  very  afternoon  for  opening  the 
scene  of  courtship. 

As  soon  as  he  had  dispatched  this  messenger,  he  went  in  quest 
of  his  sister,  whom  he  found  reading  and  expounding  the  Gazette 
to  Parson  Supple.  To  this  exposition  he  was  obliged  to  attend 
near  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  though  with  great  violence  to  his 
natural  impetuosity,  before  he  was  suffered  to  speak.  At  length, 
however,  he  found  an  opportunity  of  acquainting  the  lady,  that  he 
had  business  of  great  consequence  to  impart  to  her ;  to  which  she 
answered,  "  Brother,  I  am  entirely  at  your  service.  Things  look 
so  well  in  the  North,  that  I  was  never  in  a  better  humor." 

The  parson  then  withdrawing,  Western  acquainted  her  with  all 
which  had  passed,  and  desired  her  to  communicate  the  affair  to 
Sophia,  which  she  readily  and  cheerfully  undertook ;  though  per- 
haps her  brother  was  a  little  obliged  to  that  agreeable  northern 
aspect,  which  had  so  delighted  her,  that  he  heard  no  comment 
on  his  proceedings ;  for  they  were  certainly  somewhat  too  hasty 
and  violent. 


CHAPTER   V. 

IN   WHICH    IS    RELATED    WHAT   PASSED    BETWEEN   SOPHIA   AND   HER 

AUNT. 

Sophia  was  in  her  chamber,  reading,  when  her  aunt  came  in. 
The  moment  she  saw  Mrs.  Western,  she  shut  the  book  with  so 
much  eagerness  that  the  good  lady  could  not  forbear  asking  her, 
"What  book  was  that  which  she  seemed  so  afraid  of  showing?" 
"Upon  my  word,  madam,"  answered  Sophia,  "it  is  a  book  which 
I  am  neither  ashamed  nor  afraid  to  own  I  have  read.  It  is  the 
production  of  a  young  lady  of  fashion,  whose  good  understanding, 
I  think,  doth  honour  to  her  sex,  and  whose  good  heart  is  an 
honour  to  human  nature."  Mrs.  Western  then  took  up  the  book, 
and  immediately  after  threw  it  down,  saying  —  "  Yes,  the  author 
is  of  a  very  good  family ;  but  she  is  not  much  among  people  one 
knows.     I  have  never  read  it ;  for  the  best  judges  say,  there  is 


206  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

not  much  in  it.'*  —  "  I  dare  not,  madam,  set  up  my  own  opinion,'* 
says  Sophia,  *'  against  the  best  judges,  but  there  appears  to  me  a 
great  deal  of  human  nature  in  it ;  and,  in  many  parts,  so  much 
true  tenderness  and  delicacy,  that  it  hath  cost  me  many  a  tear."  — 
"  Ay,  and  do  you  love  to  cry,  then?  "  says  her  aunt.  —  "  I  love  a 
tender  sensation,"  answered  the  niece,  "  and  would  pay  the  price 
of  a  tear  for  it  at  any  time."  —  "Well,  but  show  me,"  says  the 
aunt,  "  what  you  was  reading  when  I  came  in  ;  there  was  some- 
thing very  tender  in  that,  I  believe,  and  very  loving  too.  You 
blush,  my  dear  Sophia.  Ah  !  child,  you  should  read  books  which 
would  teach  you  a  little  hypocrisy,  which  would  instruct  you  how 
to  hide  your  thoughts  a  little  better."  —  "I  hope,  madam," 
answered  Sophia,  "  I  have  no  thoughts  which  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  discovering."  —  *•  Ashamed!  no,"  cries  the  aunt, 
*^I  don't  think  you  have  any  thoughts  which  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of;  and  yet,  child,  you  blushed  just  now  when  I  men- 
tioned the  word  loving.  Dear  Sophia,  be  assured  you  have  not 
one  thought  which  I  am  not  well  acquainted  with ;  as  well,  child, 
as  the  French  are  with  our  motions,  long  before  we  put  them  in 
execution.  Did  you  think,  child,  because  you  have  been  able  to 
impose  upon  your  father,  that  you  could  impose  upon  me?  Do 
you  imagine  I  did  not  know  the  reason  of  your  overacting  all  that 
friendship  for  Mr.  Blifil  yesterday?  I  have  seen  a  little  too  much 
of  the  world,  to  be  so  deceived.  Nay,  nay,  do  not  blush  again.  I 
tell  you  it  is  a  passion  you  need  not  be  ashamed  of.  It  is  a  pas- 
sion I  myself  approve,  and  have  already  brought  your  father  into 
the  approbation  of  it.  Indeed,  I  solely  consider  your  inclination  ; 
for  I  would  always  have  that  gratified,  if  possible,  though  one 
may  sacrifice  higher  prospects.  Come,  I  have  news  which  will 
delight  your  very  soul.  Make  me  your  confidant,  and  I  will 
undertake  you  shall  be  happy  to  the  very  extent  of  your  wishes." 
—  "  La  !  madam,"  says  Sophia,  looking  more  foolishly  than  ever 
she  did  in  her  life,  "  I  know  not  what  to  say.  Why,  madam, 
should  you  suspect?"  —  "Nay,  no  dishonesty,"  returned  Mrs. 
Western.  "  Consider  you  are  speaking  to  one  of  your  own  sex, 
to  an  aunt,  and  I  hope  you  are  convinced  you  speak  to  a  friend. 


TOM  JONES.  207 

Consider,  you  are  only  revealing  to  me  what  I  know  already,  and 
what  I  plainly  saw  yesterday  through  that  most  artful  of  all  dis- 
guises, which  you  had  put  on,  and  which  must  have  deceived 
anyone  who  had  not  perfectly  known  the  world.  Lastly,  consider 
it  is  a  passion  which  I  highly  approve." 

"  La,  madam,"  says  Sophia,  "  you  come  upon  me  so  unawares, 
and  on  a  sudden.  To  be  sure,  madam,  I  am  not  blind,  —  and 
certainly,  it  it  be  a  fault  to  see  all  human  perfections  assembled 
together  —  But,  is  it  possible  my  father  and  you,  madam,  can  see 
with  my  eyes?"  —  "I  tell  you,"  answered  the  aunt,  *'we  do 
entirely  approve  \  and  this  very  afternoon  your  father  hath  ap- 
pointed for  you  to  receive  your  lover." — "My  father  !  this  after- 
noon ! "  cries  Sophia,  with  the  blood  starting  from  her  face. 
**  Yes,  child,"  said  the  aunt,  "  this  afternoon.  You  know  the 
impetuosity  of  my  brother's  temper.  I  acquainted  him  with  the 
passion  which  I  first  discovered  in  you  that  evening  when  you 
fainted  away  in  the  field.  I  saw  it  in  your  fainting.  I  saw  it 
immediately  upon  your  recovery.  I  saw  it  that  evening  at  supper, 
and  the  next  morning  at  breakfast,  (you  know,  child,  I  have  seen 
the  world.)  Well,  I  no  sooner  acquainted  my  brother,  but  he 
immediately  wanted  to  propose  it  to  Allworthy.  He  proposed  it 
yesterday ;  Allworthy  consented,  (as  to  be  sure  he  must  with 
joy;)  and  this  afternoon,  I  tell  you,  you  are  to  put  on  all  your 
best  airs."  —  "  This  afternoon  !  "  cries  Sophia.  "  Dear  aunt,  you 
frighten  me  out  of  my  senses." — "O  !  my  dear,"  said  the  aunt, 
"you  will  soon  come  to  yourself  again;  for  he  is  a  charming 
young  fellow,  that's  the  truth  on 't."—-" Nay,  I  will  own,"  says 
Sophia,  "  I  know  none  with  such  perfections.  So  brave,  and  yet 
so  gentle,  so  witty,  yet  so  inoffensive ;  so  humane,  so  civil,  so 
genteel,  so  handsome  !  What  signifies  his  being  base  bom,  when 
compared  with  such  qualifications  as  these  ?  "  —  "  Base  born  !  what 
do  you  mean?"  said  the  aunt;  "Mr.  Blifil  base  bom  !"  Sophia 
turned  instantly  pale  at  this  name,  and  faintly  repeated  it.  Upon 
which  the  aunt  cried,  "  Mr.  Blifil !  ay,  Mr.  Blifil ;  of  whom  else 
have  we  been  talking?  "  —  "  Good  Heavens  !  "  answered  Sophia, 
ready  to  sink,  "  of  Mr.  Jones,  I  thought ;   I  am  sure  I  know  no 


208  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

Other  who  deserves  —  "  "I  protest,"  cries  the  aunt,  "  you  frighten 
me  in  your  turn.  Is  it  Mr.  Jones,  and  not  Mr.  Blifil,  who  is  the 
object  of  your  affection?"  —  "Mr.  BUfil !  "  repeated  Sophia. 
**  Sure  it  is  impossible  you  can  be  in  earnest ;  if  you  are,  I  am  the 
most  miserable  woman  alive."  Mrs.  Western  now  stood  a  few 
moments  silent,  while  sparks  of  fiery  rage  flashed  from  her  eyes. 
At  length,  collecting  all  her  force  of  voice,  she  thundered  forth  in 
the  following  articulate  sounds  :  — 

"And  is  it  possible  that  you  can  think  of  disgracing  your 
family  by  allying  yourself  to  a  bastard?  Can  the  blood  of  the 
Westerns  submit  to  such  contamination  !  If  you  have  not  sense 
sufficient  to  restrain  such  monstrous  inclinations,  I  thought  the 
pride  of  our  family  would  have  prevented  you  from  giving  the  < 
least  encouragement  to  so  base  an  affection;  much  less  did  I 
imagine  you  would  ever  have  had  the  assurance  to  own  it  to 
my  face." 

"Madam,"  answered  Sophia,  trembling,  "what  I  have  said, 
you  have  extorted  from  me.  I  do  not  remember  to  have  ever 
mentioned  the  name  of  Mr.  Jones  with  approbation  to  any  one 
before ;  nor  should  I  now,  had  I  not  conceived  he  had  your 
approbation.  Whatever  were  my  thoughts  of  that  poor  unhappy 
young  man,  I  intended  to  have  carried  them  with  me  to  my  grave. 
To  that  grave  where  only  now  I  find,  I  am  to  seek  repose."  —  Here 
she  sunk  down  in  her  chair,  drowned  in  her  tears ;  and,  in  all  the 
moving  silence  of  unutterable  grief,  presented  a  spectacle  which 
must  have  affected  almost  the  hardest  heart. 

All  this  tender  sorrow,  however,  raised  no  compassion  in  her 
aunt.  On  the  contrary,  she  now  fell  into  the  most  violent  rage.  — 
"  And  I  would  rather,"  she  cried,  in  a  most  vehement  voice,  "follow 
you  to  your  grave,  than  I  would  see  you  disgrace  yourself  and  your 
family  by  such  a  match.  O  Heavens  !  could  I  have  ever  suspected 
that  I  should  live  to  hear  a  niece  of  mine  declare  a  passion  for 
such  a  fellow  !  You  are  the  first,  —  yes.  Miss  Western,  you  are 
the  first  of  your  name  who  ever  entertained  so  grovelling  a 
thought.  A  family  so  noted  for  the  prudence  of  its  women." 
Here  she  ran  on  full  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  till,  having  exhausted 


TOM  JONES,  209 

her  breath,  rather  than  her  rage,  she  concluded  with  threatening 
to  go  immediately  and  acquaint  her  brother. 

Sophia  then  threw  herself  at  her  feet,  and  laying  hold  of  her 
hands,  begged  her,  with  tears,  to  conceal  what  she  had  drawn 
from  her ;  urging  the  violence  of  her  father's  temper,  and  pro- 
testing that  no  inchnation  of  hers  should  ever  prevail  with  her  to 
do  anything  which  might  offend  him. 

Mrs.  Western  stood  a  moment  looking  at  her,  and  then,  having 
recollected  herself,  said,  "That  on  one  consideration  only  she^ 
would  keep  the  secret  from  her  brother ;  and  this  was,  that  Sophia 
should  promise  to  entertain  Mr.  Blifil  that  very  afternoon  as 
her  lover,  and  to  regard  him  as  the  person  who  was  to  be  her 
husband." 

Poor  Sophia  was  too  much  in  her  aunt's  power  to  deny  her 
anything  positively :  she  was  obliged  to  promise  that  she  would 
see  Mr.  Blifil,  and  be  as  civil  to  him  as  possible ;  but  begged  her 
aunt  that  the  match  might  not  be  hurried  on.  She  said,  "  Mr. 
Blifil  was  by  no  means  agreeable  to  her,  and  she  hoped  her  father 
would  be  prevailed  on  not  to  make  her  the  most  wretched  of 
women." 

Mrs.  Western  assured  her,  "  That  the  match  was  entirely  agreed 
upon,  and  that  nothing  could  or  should  prevent  it.  —  I  must  own," 
said  she,  "  I  looked  on  it  as  a  matter  of  indifference ;  nay,  perhaps, 
had  some  scruples  about  it  before,  which  were  actually  got  over 
by  my  thinking  it  highly  agreeable  to  your  own  inclinations ;  but 
now  I  regard  it  as  the  most  eligible  thing  in  the  world;  nor 
shall  there  be,  if  I  can  prevent  it,  a  moment  of  time  lost  on  the 
occasion." 

Sophia  replied,  "  Delay,  at  least,  madam,  I  may  expect  from 
both  your  goodness  and  my  father's.  Surely  you  will  give  me  time 
to  endeavour  to  get  the  better  of  so  strong  a  disinclination  as  I 
have  at  present  to  this  person." 

The  aunt  answered,  "  She  knew  too  much  of  the  world  to  be  so 
deceived ;  that  as  she  was  sensible  another  mai.  had  her  affections, 
she  should  persuade  Mr.  Western  to  hasten  the  match  as  much  as 
possible.     It  would  be  bad  politics  indeed,"  added  she,  *'to  pro- 

14 


2IO  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION 

tract  a  siege  when  the  enemy's  army  is  at  hand,  and  in  danger  of 
reUeving  it.  No,  no,  Sophy,"  said  she,  "  as  I  am  convinced  you 
have  a  violent  passion,  which  you  can  never  satisfy  with  honour,  I 
will  do  all  I  can  to  put  your  honour  out  of  the  care  of  your  family  : 
for  when  you  are  married,  those  matters  will  belong  only  to  the 
consideration  of  your  husband.  I  hope,  child,  you  will  always 
have  prudence  enough  to  act  as  becomes  you ;  but  if  you  should 
not,  marriage  hath  saved  many  a  woman  from  ruin." 

Sophia  well  understood  what  her  aunt  meant ;  but  did  not  think 
proper  to  make  her  an  answer.  However,  she  took  a  resolution  to 
see  Mr.  Bhfil,  ahd  to  behave  to  him  as  civilly  as  she  could ;  for  on 
that  condition  only  she  obtained  a  promise  from  her  aunt  to  keep 
secret  the  liking  which  her  ill  fortune,  rather  than  any  scheme  of 
Mrs.  Western  had  unhappily  drawn  from  her. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CONTAINING  A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  SOPHIA  AND  MRS.  HONOUR,  WHICH 
MAY  A  LITTLE  RELIEVE  THOSE  TENDER  AFFECTIONS  WHICH  THE 
FOREGOING  SCENE  MAY  HAVE  RAISED  IN  THE  MIND  OF  A  GOOD- 
NATURED   READER. 

Mrs.  Western  having  obtained  that  promise  from  her  niece, 
which  we  have  seen  in  the  last  chapter,  withdrew ;  and  presently 
after  arrived  Mrs.  Honour.  She  was  at  work  in  a  neighbouring 
apartment,  and  had  been  summoned  to  the  keyhole  by  some 
vociferation  in  the  preceding  dialogue,  where  she  had  continued 
during  the  remaining  part  of  it. 

At  her  entry  into  the  room,  she  found  Sophia  standing  motion- 
less, with  the  tears  trickling  from  her  eyes.  Upon  which  she 
immediately  ordered  a  proper  quantity  of  tears  into  her  own  eyes, 
and  then  began  :  '*  O  gemini !  my  dear  lady,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 
• — "Nothing,"  cries  Sophia.  —  "Nothing!  O,  dear  madam!" 
answers  Mrs.  Honour,  "you  must  not  tell  me  that,  when  your 
la*ship  is  in  this  taking,  and  when  there  hath  been  such  a  pre- 


TOM  JONES.  21 1 

amble  between  your  la'ship  and  Madam  Western.'*  —  '*  Don't 
tease  me,"  cries  Sophia  ;  "  I  tell  you  nothing  is  the  matter.  Good 
Heavens!  why  was  I  born?"  —  "Nay,  madam,"  says  Mrs. 
Honour,  "you  shall  never  persuade  me  that  your  la'ship  can 
lament  herself  so  for  nothing.  To  be  sure,  I  am  but  a  servant ; 
but  to  be  sure  I  have  been  always  faithful  to  your  la'ship,  and  to 
be  sure  I  would  serve  your  la'ship  with  my  life."  —  "My  dear 
Honour,"  says  Sophia,  "  'tis  not  in  thy  power  to  be  of  any  service 
to  me.  I  am  irretrievably  undone."  —  "Heaven  forbid,"  an- 
swered the  waiting-woman :  "but  if  I  can't  be  of  any  service  to 
you,  pray  tell  me,  madam,  —  it  will  be  some  comfort  to  me  to 
know;  — pray,  dear  ma'am,  tell  me  what's  the  matter."  —  "My 
father,"  cries  Sophia,  "  is  going  to  marry  me  to  a  man  I  both 
despise  and  hate."  — "  O,  dear  ma'am,"  answered  the  other, 
"who  is  this  wicked  man?  for  to  be  sure  he  is  very  bad,  or  your 
la'ship  would  not  despise  him."  — "  His  name  is  poison  to  my 
tongue,"  replied  Sophia  :  "  thou  wilt  know  it  too  soon."  Indeed, 
to  confess  the  truth,  she  knew  it  already,  and,  therefore,  was  not 
very  inquisitive  as  to  that  point.  She  then  proceeded  thus  :  "  I 
don't  pretend  to  give  your  la'ship  advice,  whereof  your  la'ship 
knows  much  better  than  I  can  pretend  to,  being  but  a  servant ; 
but,  i-fackins  !  no  father  in  England  should  marr>'  me  against  my 
consent.  And,  to  be  sure,  the  squire  is  so  good,  that  if  he  did 
but  know  your  la'ship  despises  and  hates  the  young  man,  to 
be  sure  he  would  not  desire  you  to  marry  him.  And  if  your 
la'ship  would  but  give  me  leave  to  tell  my  master  so  —  To  be 
sure,  it  would  be  more  properer  to  come  from  your  own  mouth ; 
but  as  your  la'ship  doth  not  care  to  foul  your  tongue  with  his  nasty 
name  "  —  "You  are  mistaken.  Honour,"  says  Sophia ;  "  my  father 
was  determined  before  he  ever  thought  fit  to  mention  it  to  me." 
—  "More  shame  for  him,"  cries  Honour;  "you  are  to  go  to  bed 
to  him,  and  not  master;  and  tho'f  a  man  may  be  a  very  proper 
man,  yet  every  woman  mayn't  think  him  handsome  alike.  I  am 
sure  my  master  would  never  act  in  this  manner  of  his  own  head. 
I  wish  some  people  would  trouble  themselves  only  with  what 
belongs  to  them :  they  would  not,  I  believe,  like  to  be  served  so. 


212  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

if  it  was  their  own  case ;  for  though  I  am  a  maid,  I  can  easily 
believe  as  how  all  men  are  not  equally  agreeable.  And  what  sig- 
nifies your  la'ship  having  so  great  a  fortune,  if  you  can't  please 
yourself  with  the  man  you  think  most  handsomest  ?  Well,  I  say 
nothing;  but  to  be  sure  it  is  a  pity  some  folks  had  not  been 
better  born ;  nay,  as  for  that  matter,  I  should  not  mind  it  myself; 
but  then  there  is  not  so  much  money ;  and  what  of  that  ?  your 
la'ship  hath  money  enough  for  both ;  and  where  can  your  la'ship 
bestow  your  fortune  better?  for  to  be  sure  every  one  must  allow 
that  he  is  the  most  handsomest,  charmingest,  finest,  tallest,  prop- 
erest  man  in  the  world."  —  "  What  do  you  mean  by  running  on 
in  this  manner  to  me?"  cries  Sophia,  with  a  very  grave  counte- 
nance. "  Have  I  ever  given  any  encouragement  for  these  lib- 
erties?"—  "Nay,  ma'am,  I  ask  pardon;  I  meant  no  harm," 
answered  she ;  **  but  to  be  sure  the  poor  gentleman  hath  run  in 
my  head  ever  since  I  saw  him  this  morning.  To  be  sure,  if  your 
la'ship  had  but  seen  him  just  now,  you  must  have  pitied  him. 
Poor  gentleman  !  I  wishes  some  misfortune  hath  not  happened 
to  him ;  for  he  hath  been  walking  about  with  his  arms  across, 
and  looking  so  melancholy,  all  this  morning :  I  vow  and  protest 
it  almost  made  me  cry  to  see  him."  —  "To  see  whom?"  says 
Sophia.  "  Poor  Mr.  Jones,"  answered  Honour.  "  See  him ! 
why,  where  did  you  see  him?"  cries  Sophia.  "By  the  canal, 
ma'am,"  says  Honour.  "There  he  hath  been  walking  all  this 
morning,  and  at  last  there  he  laid  himself  down ;  I  believe  he 
lies  there  still.  To  be  sure,  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  modesty, 
being  a  maid  as  I  am,  I  should  have  gone  and  spoke  to  him. 
Do,  ma'am,  let  me  go  and  see,  only  for  a  fancy,  whether  he  is 
there  still." 

"  Pugh  !  "  says  Sophia.  "There  !  no,  no  :  what  should  he  do 
there  ?  He  is  gone  before  this  time,  to  be  sure.  Besides,  why 
—  what  —  why  should  you  go  to  see? — besides,  I  want  you  for 
something  else.  Go,  fetch  me  my  hat  and  gloves.  I  shall  walk 
with  my  aunt  in  the  grove  before  dinner."  Honour  did  immedi- 
ately as  she  was  bid,  and  Sophia  put  her  hat  on  ;  when,  looking 
in  the  glass,  she  fancied  the  riband  with  which  her  hat  was  tied 


TOM  JONES,  213 

did  not  become  her,  and  so  sent  her  maid  back  again  for  a 
riband  of  a  different  colour ;  and  then  giving  Mrs.  Honour  re- 
peated charges  not  to  leave  her  work  on  any  account,  as  she  said 
it  was  in  violent  haste,  and  must  be  finished  that  very  day,  she 
muttered  something  more  about  going  to  the  grove,  and  then 
sallied  out  the  contrary  way,  and  walked  as  fast  as  her  tender 
trembling  limbs  could  carry  her,  directly  toward  the  canal. 

Jones  had  been  there,  as  Mrs.  Honour  had  told  her ;  he  had, 
indeed,  spent  two  hours  there  that  morning  in  melancholy  con- 
templation on  his  Sophia,  and  had  gone  out  from  the  garden  at 
one  door,  the  moment  she  entered  it  at  another.  So  that  those 
unlucky  minutes,  which  had  been  spent  in  changing  the  ribands, 
had  prevented  the  lovers  from  meeting  at  this  time ;  —  a  most 
unfortunate  accident,  from  which  my  fair  readers  will  not  fail  to 
draw  a  very  wholesome  lesson.  And  here  I  strictly  forbid  all 
male  critics  to  intermeddle  with  a  circumstance,  which  I  have 
recounted  only  for  the  sake  of  the  ladies,  and  upon  which  they 
only  are  at  liberty  to  comment. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  PICTURE  OF  FORMAL  COURTSHIP  IN  MINIATURE,  AS  IT  ALWAYS 
OUGHT  TO  BE  DRAWN;  AND  A  SCENE  OF  A  TENDERER  KIND, 
PAINTED   AT   FULL   LENGTH. 

It  was  well  remarked  by  one,  (and,  perhaps,  by  more,)  that 
misfortunes  do  not  come  single.  This  wise  maxim  was  now  veri- 
fied by  Sophia,  who  was  not  only  disappointed  of  seeing  the  man 
she  loved,  but  had  the  vexation  of  being  obliged  to  dress  herself 
out,  in.  order  to  receive  a  visit  from  the  man  she  hated. 

That  afternoon,  Mr.  Western,  for  the  first  time,  acquainted  his 
daughter  with  his  intention ;  telling  her,  he  knew  very  well  that 
she  had  heard  it  before  from  her  aunt.  Sophia  looked  very  grave 
upon  this,  nor  could  she  prevent  a  few  pearls  from  stealing  into 


214  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

her  eyes.  "  Come,  come,"  says  Western,  "  none  of  your  maiden- 
ish airs :  I  know  all ;  I  assure  you,  sister  hath  told  me  all." 

**Is  it  possible,"  says  Sophia,  **  that  my  aunt  can  have  be- 
trayed me  already?  "  —  "Ay,  ay,"  says  Western ;  "  betrayed  you  ! 
ay.  Why,  you  betrayed  yourself  yesterday  at  dinner.  You  showed 
your  fancy  very  plainly,  I  think.  But  you  young  girls  never  know 
what  you  would  be  at.  So  you  cry  because  I  am  going  to  marry 
you  to  the  man  you  are  in  love  with  !  Your  mother,  I  remember, 
whimpered  and  whined  just  in  the  same  manner ;  but  it  was  all 
over  within  twenty- four  hours  after  we  were  married  :  Mr.  Blifil 
is  a  brisk  young  man,  and  will  soon  put  an  end  to  your  squeam- 
ishness.     Come,  cheer  up,  cheer  up  :  I  expect  un  every  minute." 

Sophia  was  now  convinced  that  her  aunt  had  behaved  honour- 
ably to  her;  and  she  determined  to  go  through  that  disagreeable 
afternoon  with  as  much  resolution  as  possible^  and  without  giving 
the  least  suspicion  in  the  world  to  her  father, 

Mr.  Blifil  soon  arrived ;  and  Mr.  Western  soon;  after  withdraw- 
ing, left  the  young  people  together. 

Here  a  long  silence  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ensued  ;  for 
the  gentleman,  who  was  to  begin  the  conversation,  had  all  that 
unbecoming  modesty  which  consists  in  bashfulness.  He  often 
attempted  to  speak,  and  as  often  suppressed  his  words  just  at  the 
very  point  of  utterance.  At  last,  out  they  broke  in  a  torrent  of 
far-fetched  and  high-strained  compliments,  which  were  answered 
on  her  side  by  downcast  looks,  half  bow5,  and  civil  monosyl- 
lables. Blifil,  from  his  inexperience  in  the  ways  of  women,  and 
from  his  conceit  of  himself,  took  this  behaviour  for  a  modest 
assent  to  his  courtship;  and  when,  to  shorten  a  scene  which 
she  could  no  longer  support,  Sophia  rose  up  and  left  the  room, 
he  imputed  that,  too,  merely  to  bashfulness,  and  comforted  him- 
self that  he  should  soon  have  enough  of  her  company. 

He  was  indeed  perfectly  well  satisfied  with  his  prospect  of 
success ;  for  as  to  that  entire  and  absolute  possession  of  the  heart 
of  his  mistress,  which  romantic  lovers  require,  the  very  idea  of  it 
never  entered  his  head.  Her  fortune  and  her  person  were  the 
sole  objects  of  his  wishes,  of  which  he  made  no  doubt  soon  to 


TOM  JONES.  2 1 5 

obtain  the  absolute  property;  as  Mr.  Western's  mind  was  so 
earnestly  bent  on  the  match ;  and  as  he  well  knew  the  strict  obe- 
dience which  Sophia  was  always  ready  to  pay  to  her  father's  will, 
and  the  greater  still  which  her  father  would  exact,  if  there  was 
occasion.  This  authority,  therefore,  together  with  the  charms 
which  he  fancied  in  his  own  person  and  conversation,  could  not 
fail,  he  thought,  of  succeeding  with  a  young  lady,  whose  inclina- 
tions were,  he  doubted  not,  entirely  disengaged. 

Of  Jones  he  certainly  had  not  even  the  least  jealousy;  and  I 
have  often  thought  it  wonderful  that  he  had  not.  Perhaps  he 
imagined  the  character  which  Jones  bore  all  oyer  the  country, 
(how  justly,  let  the  reader  determine,)  of  being  one  of  the  wild- 
est fellows  in  England,  might  render  him  odious  to  a  lady  of  the 
most  exemplary  modesty.  Perhaps  his  suspicions  might  be  laid 
asleep  by  the  behaviour  of  Sophia,  and  of  Jones  himself,  when 
they  were  all  in  company  together.  Lastly,  and  indeed  princi- 
pally, he  was  well  assured  there  was  not  apother  self  in  the  case. 
He  fancied  that  he  knew  Jones  to  the  bottom,  and  had  in  reality 
a  gr^at  contempt  for  his  understanding,  for  not  being  more  at- 
tached to  his  own  interest.  He  had  no  apprehension  that  Jones 
was  in  love,  with  Sophia;  and  as  for  any  lucrative  motives,  he 
imagined  they  would  sway  little  with  so  silly  a  fellow.  Blifil, 
moreover,  thought  the  affair  of  Molly  Seagrim  still  went  on,  and 
indeed  believed  it  would  end  in  marriage;  for  Jones  really  loved 
him  from  his  childhood,  and  had  kept  no  secret  from  him,  till  his 
behaviour  on  the  sickness  of  Mr.  Allworthy  had  entirely  alienated 
his  heart ;  and  it  was  by  means  of  the  quarrel  which  had  ensued 
on  this  occasion,  and  which  was  not  yet  reconciled,  that  Mr. 
Blifil  knew  nothing  of  the  alteration  which  had  happened  in  the 
affection  which  Jones  had  formerly  borne  towards  Molly. 

From  these  reasons,  therefore,  Mr.  Blifil  saw  no  bar  to  his  suc- 
cess with  Sophia.  He  concluded  her  behaviour  was  like  that  of 
all  other  young  ladies  on  a  first  visit  from  a  lover,  and  it  had 
indeed  entirely  answered  his  expectations 

Mr.  Western  took  care  to  waylay  the  lover  at  his  exit  from 
his  mistress.     He  found  him  so  elevated  with  his  success,  so 


2l6  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

enamoured  with  his  daughter,  and  so  satisfied  with  her  reception 
of  him,  that  the  old  gentleman  began  to  caper  and  dance  about 
his  hall,  and  by  many  other  antic  actions,  to  express  the  extrava- 
gance of  his  joy;  for  he  had  not  the  least  command  over  any 
of  his  passions ;  and  that  which  had  at  any  time  the  ascendant 
in  his  mind,  hurried  him  to  the  wildest  excesses. 

As  soon  as  Blifil  was  departed,  which  was  not  till  after  many 
hearty  kisses  and  embraces  bestowed  on  him  by  Western,  the 
good  squire  went  instantly  in  quest  of  his  daughter,  whom  he  no 
sooner  found,  than  he  poured  forth  the  most  extravagant  raptures, 
bidding  her  choose  what  clothes  and  jewels  she  pleased  ;  and 
declaring  that  he  had  no  other  use  for  fortune  but  to  make  her 
happy.  He  then  caressed  her  again  and  again  with  the  utmost 
profusion  of  fondness,  called  her  by  the  most  endearing  names, 
and  protested  she  was  his  only  joy  on  earth. 

Sophia,  perceiving  her  father  in  this  fit  of  affection,  which  she 
did  not  absolutely  know  the  reason  of,  (for  fits  of  fondness  were 
not  unusual  to  him,  though  this  was  rather  more  violent  than 
ordinary,)  thought  she  should  never  have  a  better  opportunity  of 
disclosing  herself  than  at  present,  as  far  at  least  as  regarded  Mr. 
Blifil ;  and  she  too  well  foresaw  the  necessity  which  she  should  soon 
be  under  of  coming  to  a  full  explanation.  After  having  thanked  the 
squire,  therefore,  for  all  his  professions  of  kindness,  she  added, 
with  a  look  full  of  inexpressible  softness,  "  And  is  it  possible  that 
my  papa  can  be  so  good  to  place  all  his  joy  in  his  Sophia's 
happiness?"  which  Western  having  confirmed  by  a  great  oath, 
and  a  kiss,  she  then  laid  hold  of  his  hand,  and,  falling  on  her 
knees,  after  many  warm  and  passionate  declarations  of  affection 
and  duty,  she  begged  him,  "  not  to  make  her  the  most  miserable 
creature  on  earth,  by  forcing  her  to  marry  a  man  whom  she 
detested.  This  I  entreat  of  you,  dear  sir,"  said  she,  *'  for  your 
sake,  as  well  as  my  own,  since  you  are  so  very  kind  to  tell  me  your 
happiness  depends  on  mine."  —  *'  How  !  what !  "  says  Western, 
staring  wildly.  "  O,  sir  !  "  continued  she,  *'  not  only  your  poor 
Sophy's  happiness,  her  very  hfe,  her  being,  depends  upon  your 
granting  her  request.     I  cannot  live  with  Mr.  Blifil.     To  force  me 


TOM  JONES.  217 

into  this  marriage,  would  be  killing  me."  —  "You  can't  live  with 
Mr.  Blifil !  "  says  Western.  "  No,  upon  my  soul  I  can't,"  an- 
swered Sophia.     "Then  die,  and  be  d d,"  cries  he,  spurning 

her  from  him.  "Oh!  sir,"  cries  Sophia,  catching  hold  of  the 
skirt  of  his  coat,  "  take  pity  on  me,  I  beseech  you.  Don't  look 
and  say  such  cruel  —  Can  you  be  unmoved  while  you  see  your 
Sophy  in  this  dreadful  condition  ?  Can  the  best  of  fathers  break 
my  heart?  Will  he  kill  me  by  the  most  painful,  cruel,  lingering 
death  ?  "  —  "  Pooh  !  pooh  !  "  cries  the  squire ;  "  all  stuff  and  non- 
sense ;  all  maidenish  tricks.  Kill  you,  indeed  !  Will  marriage 
kill  you?"  —  "Oh!  sir,"  answered  Sophia,  "such  a  marriage  is 
worse  than  death.  He  is  not  even  indifferent ;  I  hate  and  detest 
him."  —  "If  you  detest  un  never  so  much,"  cries  Western,  "you 
shall  have  un."  This  he  bound  by  an  oath  too  shocking  to  repeat ; 
and,  after  many  violent  asseverations,  concluded  in  these  words : 
"  I  am  resolved  upon  the  match,  and,  unless  you  consent  to  it,  I 
will  not  give  you  a  groat,  not  a  single  farthing ;  no,  though  I  saw 
you  expiring  with  famine  in  the  street,  I  would  not  relieve  you 
with  a  morsel  of  bread.  This  is  my  fixed  resolution,  and  so  I 
leave  you  to  consider  on  it."  He  then  broke  from  her  with  such 
violence,  that  her  face  dashed  against  the  floor:  and  he  burst 
directly  out  of  the  room,  leaving  poor  Sophia  prostrate  on  the 
ground. 

When  Western  came  into  the  hall,  he  there  found  Jones ;  who, 
seeing  his  friend  looking  wild,  pale,  and  almost  breathless,  could 
not  forbear  inquiring  the  reason  of  all  these  melancholy  appear* 
ances.     Upon  which  the  squire  immediately  acquainted  him  with 
he  whole  matter,  concluding  with  bitter  denunciations  agair 
■phia,  and  very  pathetic  lamentations  of  the  misery  of  all  fath 
>  are  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  daughters, 
nes,  to  whom  all  the  resolutions  which  had    been  taken 
favour  of  Blifil  were  yet  a  secret,  was  at  first  almost  struck  dead 
with  this  relation;    but   recovering  his  spirits  a  little,  mere  de- 
spair, as  he  afterwards  said,  inspired  him  to  mention  a  matter 
to  Mr.  Western,  which  seemed  to  require  more  impudence  than 
a  human  forehead  was  ever  gifted  with.     He  desired  leave  to  go 


2l8  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

tx)  Sophia,  that  he  might  endeavour  to  gain  her  concurrence  with 
her  father's  incUnations. 

If  the  squire  had  been  as  quick-sighted  as  he  was  remarkable 
for  the  contrary,  passion  might  at  present  very  well  have  blinded 
him.  He  thanked  Jones  for  offering  to  undertake  the  office,  and 
said,  "  Go,  go,  prithee,  try  what  canst  do ; "  and  then  swore  many 
execrable  oaths  that  he  would  turn  her  out  of  doors  unless  she 
consented  to  the  match. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

THE   MEETING    BETWEEN   JONES   AND   SOPHIA. 

Jones  departed  instantly  in  quest  of  Sophia,  whom  he  found  just 
risen  from  the  ground,  where  her  father  had  left  her,  with  the  tears 
trickling  from  her  eyes,  and  the  blood  running  from  her  lips.  He 
presently  ran  to  her,  and,  with  a  voice  at  once  full  of  tenderness 
and  terror,  cried  out,  "  O,  my  Sophia,  what  means  this  dreadful 
sight?  "  She  looked  softly  at  him  for  a  moment  before  she  spoke, 
and  then  said,  *^  Mr.  Jones,  for  Heaven^s  sake,  how  came  you 
here?  Leave  me,  I  beseech  you,  this  moment."  "Do  not," 
says  he,  ''impose  so  harsh  a  command  upon  me  —  my  heart 
bleeds  faster  than  those  lips.  O  Sophia !  how  easily  could  I 
drain  my  veins  to  preserve  one  drop  of  that  dear  blood."  '*  I 
have  too  many  obligations  to  you  already,"  answered  she,  "for 
sure  you  meant  them  such."  Here  she  looked  at  him  tenderly 
almost  a  minute,  and  then,  bursting  into  an  agony,  cried,  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Jones,  why  did  you  save  my  life?  my  death  would  have 
been  happier  for  us  both."  "  Happier  for  us  both  !  "  cried  he, 
"  Could  racks  or  wheels  kill  me  so  painfully  as  Sophia's  —  I  can- 
not bear  the  dreadful  sound.  Do  I  live  but  for  her?"  Both  his 
voice  and  look  were  full  of  inexpressible  tenderness  when  he 
spoke  these  words ;  and  at  the  same  time  he  laid  gently  hold  on 
her  hand,  which  she  did  not  withdraw  from  him :  to  say  the  truth, 
she  hardly  knew  what  she  did  or  suffered.     A  few  moments  now 


TOM  JONES,  219 

passed  in  silence  between  these  lovers,  while  his  eyes  were  eagerly 
fixed  on  Sophia,  and  hers  declining  towards  the  ground  ;  At  last, 
she  recovered  strength  enough  to  desire. him  again  to  Iqave  her,, 
for  that  her  certain  ruin  would  be  the  consequence  of  their 
being  found  together ;  adding,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Jones,  you  know  not, 
you  know  not  what  hath  passed  this  cruel  afternoon."  "I 
know  all,  my  Sophia,"  answered  he:  "your  cruel  father  hath 
told  me  all,  and  he  himself  hath  sent  me  hither  to  you."  "  My 
father  sent  you  to  me ! "  replied  she :  "  sure  you  dream." 
"Would  to  Heaven,"  cries  he,  "it  was  but  a  dream  !  Oh  !  Sophia, 
your  father  hath  sent  me  to  you,  to  be  an  advocate  for  my  odious 
rival,  to  solicit  you  his  favour.  I  took  any  means  to  get  access  to 
you.  O,  speak  to  me,  Sophia  !  comfort  my  bleeding  heart.  Sure 
no  one  ever  loved,  ever  doated,  like  me.  Do  not  unkindly  with- 
hold this  dear,  this  soft,  this  gentle  hand.  One  moment,  perhaps, 
tears  you  forever  from  me.  Nothing  less  than  this  cruel  occasion 
could,  I  believe,  have  ever  conquered  the  respect  and  awe  with 
which  you  have  inspired  me."  She  stood  a  moment  silent,  and 
covered  with  confusion ;  then,  lifting  up  her  eyes  gently  towards 
him,  she  cried,  "What  would  Mr.  Jones  have  me  say? "  " O,  do 
but  promise,"  cries  he,  "that  you  never  will  give  yourself  to 
Blifil."  "  Name  not,"  answered  she,  "  the  detested  sound.  Be 
assured,  I  never  will  give  him  what  is  in  my  power  to  withhold  from 
him."  "  Now,  then,"  cries  he,  "while  you  are  so  perfectly  kind, 
go  a  little  farther,  and  add  that  I  may  hope."  "Alas  !  "  says  she, 
"  Mr.  Jones,  whither  will  you  drive  me  ?  What  hope  have  I  to 
bestow?  You  know  my  father's  intentions."  "But  I  know," 
answered  he,  "your  compliance  with  them  cannot  be  compelled." 
"  What,"  says  she,  "  must  be  the  dreadful  consequence  of  my 
disobedience  ?  My  own  ruin  is  my  least  concern.  I  cannot  bear 
the  thoughts  of  being  the  cause  of  my  father's  misery."  "  He  is 
himself  the  cause,"  cries  Jones,  "by  exacting  a  power  over  you 
which  nature  hath  not  given  him.  Think  on  the  misery  which  I 
am  to  suffer,  if  I  am  to  lose  you,  and  see  en  which  side  pity  will 
turn  the  balance."  "Think  of  it!"  replied  she:  "can  you 
imagine  I  do  not  feel  the  ruin  which  I  must  bring  on  you,  should 


220  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

I  comply  with  your  desire  ?  It  is  that  thought  which  gives  me 
resolution  to  bid  you  fly  from  me  forever,  and  avoid  your  own 
destruction."  "  I  fear  no  destruction,"  cries  he,  "  but  the  loss  of 
Sophia.  If  you  will  save  me  from  the  most  bitter  agonies,  recall 
that  cruel  sentence.  Indeed,  I  can  never  part  with  you,  indeed  I 
cannot." 

The  lovers  now  stood  both  silent  and  trembling,  Sophia  being 
unable  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  Jones,  and  he  almost  as  unable 
to  hold  it ;  when  the  scene,  which  I  believe  some  of  my  readers 
will  think  had  lasted  long  enough,  was  interrupted  by  one  of  so 
different  a  nature,  that  we  shall  reserve  the  relation  of  it  for  a 
different  chapter. 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY.  221 


XII.     TRISTRAM   SHANDY  (1759-1767). 

[BOOK   SECOND.] 


CHAPTER  V. 

When  a  man  gives  himself  up  to  the  government  of  a  ruling 
passion,  —  or,  in  other  words,  when  his  Hobby-Horse  grows  head- 
strong, —  farewell  cool  reason  and  fair  discretion. 

My  uncle  Toby's  wound  was  near  well ;  and  as  soon  as  the  sur- 
geon recovered  his  surprise,  and  could  get  leave  to  say  as  much  — 
he  told  him,  'twas  just  beginning  to  incarnate  ;  and  that  if  no  fresh 
exfoliation  happened,  which  there  was  no  sign  of,  —  it  would  be 
dried  up  in  five  or  six  weeks.  The  sound  of  as  many  Olympiads, 
twelve  hours  before,  would  have  conveyed  an  idea  of  shorter  du- 
ration to  my  uncle  Toby's  mind.  —  The  succession  of  his  ideas 
was  now  rapid,  —  he  broiled  with  impatience  to  put  his  design  in 
execution;  —  and  so,  without  consulting  farther  with  any  soul 
living,  —  which,  by  the  bye,  I  think  is  right,  when  you  are  pre- 
determined to  take  no  one  soul's  advice,  —  he  privately  ordered 
Trim,  his  man,  to  pack  up  a  bundle  of  lint  and  dressings,  and 
hire  a  chariot-and-four,  to  be  at  the  door  exactly  by  twelve  o'clock 
that  day,  when  he  knew  my  father  would  be  upon  'Change.  —  So 
leaving  a  bank-note  upon  the  table  for  the  surgeon's  care  of  him, 
and  a  letter  of  tender  thanks  for  his  brother's  —  he  packed  up. 
his  maps,  his  books  of  fortification,  his  instruments,  &c.  and  by 
the  help  of  a  crutch  on  one  side,  and  Trim  on  the  other,  —  my 
uncle  Toby  embarked  for  Shandy- Hall. 

The  reason,  or  rather  the  rise,  of  this  sudden  demigration,  was 
as  follows : 

The  table  in  my  uncle  Toby's  room,  and  at  which,  the  night 
before  this  change  happened,  he  was  sitting  with  his  maps,  &c. 


^2*2  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

about  him  —  being  somewhat  of  the  smallest,  for  that  infinity  of 
great  and  small  instruments  of  knowledge  which  usually  lay 
crowded  upon  it  —  he  had  the  accident,  in  reaching  over  for  his 
tobacco-box,  to  throw  down  his  compasses ;  and  in  stooping  to 
take  the  compasses  up,  with  his  sleeve  he  threw  down  his  case  of 
instruments  and  snuffers ;  —  and  as  the  dice  took  a  run  against 
him,  in  his  endeavoring  to  catch  the  snuffers  in  falling,  —  he 
thrust  Monsieur  Blondel  off  the  table,  and  Count  de  Pagan  o'  top 
of  him. 

'Twas  to  no  purpose  for  a  man,  lame  as  my  uncle  Toby  was,  to 
think  of  redressing  these  evils  by  himself,  —  he  rung  his  bell  for 
his  man  Trim.  —  Trim,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  prithee  see  what 
confusion  I  have  here  been  making  —  I  must  have  some  better 
contrivance,  Trim.  Canst  not  thou  take  my  rule,  and  measure 
the  length  and  breadth  of  this  table,  and  then  go  and  bespeak 
me  one  as  big  again  ?  —  Yes,  an'  please  your  Honor,  replied  Trim, 
making  a  bow ;  but  I  hope  your  Honor  will  be  soon  well  enough 
to  get  down  to  your  country-seat,  where,  —  as  your  Honor  takes 
so  much  pleasure  in  fortification,  we  could  manage  this  matter 
to  a  T. 

I  must  here  inform  you,  that  this  servant  of  my  uncle  Toby's, 
who  went  by  the  name  of  Trim,  had  been  a  corporal  in  my  uncle's 
own  company,  —  his  real  name  was  James  Butler ;  —  but  having 
got  the  nickname  of  Trim,  in  the  regiment,  my  uncle  Toby,  un- 
less when  he  happened  to  be  very  angry  with  him,  would  never 
call  him  by  any  other  name. 

The  poor  fellow  had  been  disabled  for  the  service,  by  a  wound 
on  his  left  knee,  by  a  musket  bullet,  at  the  battle  of  Landen, 
which  was  two  years  before  the  affair  of  Namur ;  —  and  as  the 
fellow  was  well-beloved  in  the  regiment,  and  a  handy  fellow  into 
the  bargain,  my  uncle  Toby  took  him  for  his  servant :  and  of  an 
excellent  use  was  he,  attending  my  uncle  Toby  in  the  camp 
and  in  his  quarters,  as  a  valet,  groom,  barber,  cook,  sempster, 
and  nurse ;  and  indeed,  from  first  to  last,  waited  upon  him,  and 
served  him  with  great  fidelity  and  affection. 

My  uncle  Toby  loved  the  man  in  return :  and  what  attached 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY,  223 

him  more  to  him  still,  was  the  similitude  of  their  knowledge ;  —  for 
Corporal  Trim  (for  so,  for  the  future,  I  shall  call  him)  by  four 
years'  occasional  attention  to  his  Master's  discourse  upon  fortified 
towns,  and  the  advantage  of  prying  and  peeping  continually  into 
his  Master's  plans,  &c.  exclusive  and  besides  what  he  gained 
Hobby- Horsically,  as  a  body-servant,  Non  Hobby-Horsical per  se ; 
—  had  become  no  mean  proficient  in  the  science ;  and  was 
thought,  by  the  cook  and  chambermaid,  to  know  as  much  of  the 
nature  of  strong- holds  as  my  uncle  Toby  himself. 

I  have  but  one  more  stroke  to  give  to  finish  Corporal  Trim's 
character,  —  and  it  is  the  only  dark  line  in  it.  —  The  fellow  loved 
to  advise,  or  rather  to  hear  himself  talk :  his  carriage,  however, 
was  so  perfectly  respectful,  'twas  easy  to  keep  him  silent  when 
you  had  him  so  ;  but  set  his  tongue  a-goirig,  —  you  had  no  hold  of 
him  —  he  was  voluble;  — the  eternal  interlardings  oi your  Honor, 
with  the  respectfulness  of  Corporal  Trim's  manner,  interceding 
so  strong  in  behalf  of  his  elocution,  —  that  though  you  might 
have  been  incommoded,  —  you  could  not  well  be  angry.  My 
uncle  Toby  was  seldom  either  the  one  or  the  other  with  him,  — 
or,  at  least,  this  fault  in  Trim  broke  no  squares  with  them.  My 
uncle  Toby,  as  I  said,  loved  the  man ;  —  and  besides,  as  he  ever 
looked  upon  a  faithful  servant  as  an  humble  friend,  —  he  could 
not  bear  to  stop  his  mouth.  —  Such  was  Corporal  Trim. 

If  I  durst  presume,  continued  Trim,  to  give  your  Honor  my 
advice,  and  speak  my  opinion  in  this  matter  —  Thou  art  welcome, 
Trim,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby  —  speak,  —  speak  what  thou  thinkest 
upon  the  subject,  man,  without  fear.  —  Why  then,  replied  Trim 
(not  hanging  his  ears  and  scratching  his  head  like  a  country  lout, 
but)  stroking  his  hair  back  from  his  forehead,  and  standing  erect 
as  before  his  division,  —  I  think,  quoth  Corporal  Trim,  with 
humble  submission  to  your  Honor's  better  judgment,  — that  these 
ravelins,  bastions,  curtains,  and  horn-works,  make  but  a  poor, 
contemptible,  fiddle-faddle  piece  of  work  of  it  here  upon  paper, 
compared  to  what  your  Honor  and  I  could  make  of  it  were  we  in 
the  country  by  ourselves,  and  had  but  a  rood,  or  a  rood  and  a 
half  of  ground,  to  do  what  we  pleased  with  :  as  summer  is  com- 


224  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

ing  on,  continued  Trim,  your  Honor  might  sit  out  of  doors,  and 
give  me  the  nography —  (call  it  ichnography,  quoth  my  uncle)  — 
of  the  town  or  citadel  your  Honor  was  pleased  to  sit  down 
before,  and  I'll  be  shot  by  your  Honor  upon  the  glacis  of  it,  if  I 
did  not  fortify  it  to  your  Honor's  mind.  —  I  dare  say  thou  would 'st, 
Trim,  quoth  my  uncle.  —  For  if  your  Honor,  continued  the  cor- 
poral, could  but  mark  me  the  polygon,  with  its  exact  lines  and 
angles  —  (That  I  could  do  very  well,  quoth  my  uncle)  —  I  would 
begin  with  the  foss^  ;  and  if  your  Honor  could  tell  me  the  proper 
depth  and  breadth  —  (I  can,  to  a  hair's  breadth.  Trim,  replied 
my  uncle)  —  I  would  throw  out  the  earth  upon  this  hand  towards 
the  town  for  the  scarp,  —  and  on  that  hand  towards  the  campaign 
for  the  counter-scarp  —  (Very  right.  Trim,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby) 

—  and  when  I  had  sloped  them  to  your  mind,  —  an'  please  your 
Honor,  I  would  face  the  glacis,  as  the  finest  fortifications  are  done 
in  Flanders,  with  sods,  —  (and  as  your  Honor  knows  they  should 
be)  —  and  I  would  make  the  walls  and  parapets  of  sods  too.  — 
The  best  engineers  call  them  gazons,  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

—  Whether  they  are  gazons  or  sods,  is  not  much  matter,  replied 
Trim;  your  Honor  knows  they  are  ten  times  beyond  a  facing 
either  of  brick  or  stone.  —  I  know  they  are.  Trim,  in  some  respects, 

—  quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  nodding  his  head  :  —  for  a  cannon-ball 
enters  into  the  gazon  right  onwards,  without  bringing  any  rubbish 
down  with  it,  which  might  fill  the  fossd  (as  was  the  case  at  St. 
Nicholas's  gate)  and  facilitate  the  passage  over  it. 

Your  Honor  understands  these  matters,  replied  Corporal  Trim, 
better  than  any  officer  in  his  Majesty's  service  ;  —  but  would  your 
Honor  please  to  let  the  bespeaking  of  the  table  alone,  and  let  us 
but  go  into  the  country,  I  would  work  under  your  Honor's  direc- 
tions like  a  horse,  and  make  fortifications  for  you  something  like 
a  tansy,  with  all  their  batteries,  saps,  ditches,  and  palisadoes,  that 
it  should  be  worth  all  the  world's  riding  twenty  miles  to  go  and 
see  it. 

My  uncle  Toby  blushed  as  red  as  scarlet  as  Trim  went  on ;  — 
but  it  was  not  a  blush  of  guilt,  —  of  modesty,  —  or  of  anger,  —  it 
was  a  blush  of  joy ;  —  he  was  fired  with  Corporal  Trim's  project 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY.^  22$ 

and  description.  —  Trim  !  said  my  uncle  Toby,  thou  hast  said 
enough.  —  We  might  begin  the  campaign,  continued  Trim,  on 
the  very  day  that  his  Majesty  and  the  AUies  take  the  field,  and 
demolish  them,  town  by  town,  as  fast  as  —  Trim,  quoth  my  uncle 
Toby,  say  no  more.  Your  Honor,  continued  Trim,  might  sit  in 
your  arm-chair  (pointing  to  it)  this  fine  weather,  giving  me  your 
orders,  and  I  would  —  Say  no  more,  Trim,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby 

—  Besides,  your  Honor  would  get  not  only  pleasure  and  good 
pastime,  —  but  good  air,  and  good  exercise,  and  good  health ;  — ; 
and  your  Honor's  wound  would  be  well  in  a  month.  —  Thou  hast 
said  enough.  Trim,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby  (putting  his  hand  into 
his  breeches'  pocket) — I  like  thy  project  mightily.  —  And  if 
your  Honor  pleases,  I'll  this  moment  go  and  buy  a  pioneer's 
spade  to  take  down  with  us ;  and  I'll  bespeak  a  shovel  and  a 
pick-ax,  and  a  couple  of — Say  no  more.  Trim,  quoth  my  uncle 
Toby,  leaping  up  upon  one  leg,  quite  overcome  with  rapture,  — 
and  thrusting  a  guinea  into  Trim's  hand,  —  Trim,  said  my  uncle 
Toby,  say  no  more;  —  but  go  down,  Trim,  this  moment,  my  lad, 
and  bring  up  my  supper  this  instant. 

Trim  ran  down  and  brought  up  his  master's  supper,  —  to  no 
purpose  :  —  Trim's  plan  of  operation  ran  so  in  my  uncle  Toby's 
head,  he  could  not  taste  it.  —  Trim,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  get 
me  to  bed.  —  'Twas  all  one.  —  Corporal  Trim's  description  had 
fired  his  imagination ;  —  my  uncle  Toby  could  not  shut  his  eyes. 

—  The  more  he  considered  it,  the  more  bewitching  the  scene 
appeared  to  him;  —  so  that,  two  full  hours  before  daylight,  he 
had  come  to  a  final  determination,  and  had  concerted  the  whole 
plan  of  his  and  Corporal  Trim's  decampment. 

My  uncle  Toby  had  a  little  neat  country-house  of  his  own,  in 
the  village  where  my  father's  estate  lay  at  Shandy,  which  had 
been  left  him  by  an  old  uncle,  with  a  small  estate  of  about  one 
hundred  pounds  a-year.  Behind  this  house,  and  contiguous  to 
it,  was  a  kitchen-garden  of  about  half  an  acre  ;  and  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  and  cut  off  from  it  by  a  tall  yew- hedge,  was  a 
bowling-green,  containing  just  about  as  much  ground  as  Corporal 
Trim  wished  for ;  —  so  that  as  Trim  uttered  the  words,  "  A  rood 

15 


226  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

and  a  half  of  ground  to  do  what  they  would  with,"  this  identical 
bowUng-green  instantly  presented  itself,  and  became  curiously 
painted,  all  at  once,  upon  the  retina  of  my  uncle  Toby's  fancy ;  — 
which  was  the  physical  cause  of  making  him  change  color,  or 
at  least  of  heightening  his  blush  to  that  immoderate  degree  I 
spoke  of. 

Never  did  lover  post  down  to  a  beloved  mistress  with  more 
heat  and  expectation  than  my  uncle  Toby  did,  to  enjoy  the  self- 
same thing  in  private  ;  —  I  say  in  private  ;  —  for  it  was  sheltered 
from  the  house,  as  I  told  you,  by  a  tall  yew-hedge,  and  was 
covered  on  the  other  three  sides,  from  mortal  sight,  by  rough 
holly  and  thick-set  flowering  shrubs: — so  that  the  idea  of  not 
being  seen,  did  not  a  little  contribute  to  the  idea  of  pleasure 
preconceived  in  my  uncle  Toby's  mind.  —  Vain  thought  !  how- 
ever thick  it  was  planted  about,  —  or  private  soever  it  might  seem, 

—  to  think,  dear  uncle  Toby,  of  enjoying  a  thing  which  took  up 
a  whole  rood  and  a  half  of  ground,  —  and  not  have  it  known  ! 

How  my  uncle  Toby  and  Corporal  Trim  managed  this  matter, 

—  with  the  history  of  their  campaigns,  which  w^ere  no  way  barren 
of  events,  —  may  make  no  uninteresting  underplot  in  the  epitasis 
and  working  up  of  this  drama.  —  At  present  the  scene  must  drop, 
and  change  for  the  parlor  fireside. 


[BOOK    SIXTH.] 
CHAPTER   VI. 

THE   STORY   OF   LE   FEVRE. 

It  was  some  time  in  the  summer  of  that  year  in  which  Dender- 
mond  was  taken  by  the  allies,  —  which  was  about  seven  years 
before  my  father  came  into  the  country,  —  and  about  as  many 
after  the  time  that  my  uncle  Toby  and  Trim  had  privately 
decamped  from  my  father's  house  in  town,  in  order  to  lay  some 
of  the  finest  sieges  to  some  of  the  finest  fortified  cities  in  Europe ; 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY,  22/ 

—  when  my  uncle  Toby  was  one  evening  getting  his  supper,  with 
Trim  sitting  behind  him  at  a  small  sideboard,  —  I  say,  sitting,  — 
for  in  consideration  of  the  Corporal's  lame  knee  (which  some- 
times gave  him  exquisite  pain)  —  when  my  uncle  Toby  dined  or 
supped  alone,  he  would  never  suffer  the  Corporal  to  stand ;  and 
the  poor  fellow's  veneration  for  his  master  was  such,  that,  with  2. 
proper  artillery,  my  uncle  Toby  could  have  taken  Dendermond 
itself  with  less  trouble  than  he  was  able  to  gain  his  point  over 
him ;  for  many  a  time,  when  my  uncle  Toby  supposed  the  Cor- 
poral's leg  was  at  rest,  he  would  look  back,  and  detect  him  stand- 
ing behind  him  with  the  most  dutiful  respect.  —  This  bred  more 
little  squabbles  betwixt  them,  than  all  other  causes,  for  five  and 
twenty  years  together. —  but  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  —  why 
do  I  mention  it  ?  —  Ask  my  pen  ;  —  it  governs  me,  —  I  govern 
not  it. 

He  was  one  evening  sitting  thus  at  his  supper,  when  the  land- 
lord of  a  little  inn  in  the  village,  came  into  the  parlor  with  an 
empty  phial  in  his  hand,  to  beg  a  glass  or  two  of  sack.  —  'Tis 
for  a  poor  gentleman,  I  think,  of  the  army,  said  the  landlord,  who 
has  been  taken  ill  at  my  house  four  days  ago,  and  has  never  held 
up  his  head  since,  or  had  a  desire  to  taste  anything,  till  just  now, 
that  he  has  a  fancy  for  a  glass  of  sack,  and  a  thin  toast.  —  I 
think,  says  he,  taking  his  hand  from  his  head,  it  would  comfort 
me. 

If  I  could  neither  beg,  borrow,  or  buy  such  a  thing,  added  the 
landlord,  I  would  almost  steal  it  for  the  poor  gentleman,  he  is  so 
ill.  I  hope  in  God  he  will  still  mend,  continued  he ;  we  are  all 
of  us  concerned  for  him. 

—  Thou  art  a  good-natured  soul,  I  will  answer  for  thee,  cried  my 
uncle  Toby ;  and  thou  shalt  drink  the  poor  gentleman's  health  in 
a  glass  of  sack  thyself,  —  and  take  a  couple  of  botdes,  with  my 
service,  and  tell  him  he  is  heartily  welcome  to  them,  and  to  a 
dozen  more,  if  they  will  do  him  good. 

Though  I  am  persuaded,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  as  the  landlord 
shut  the  door,  he  is  a  very  compassionate  fellow,  Trim,  yet  I  can- 
not help  entertaining  a  high  opinion  of  his  guest  too.     There 


228  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

must  be  something  more  than  common  in  him,  that,  in  so  short  a 
time,  should  win  so  much  upon  the  affections  of  his  host :  —  And 
of  his  whole  family,  added  the  Corporal,  for  they  are  all  concerned 
for  him.  —  Step  after  him,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  do,  Trim ;  and 
ask  if  he  knows  his  name. 

—  I  have  quite  forgot  it  truly,  said  the  landlord,  coming  back 
into  the  parlor  with  the  Corporal ;  —  but  I  can  ask  his  son  again. 
—  Has  he  a  son  with  him,  then  ?  said  my  uncle  Toby.  —  A  boy, 
replied  the  landlord,  of  about  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  age ;  — 
but  the  poor  creature  has  tasted  almost  as  little  as  his  father :  he 
does  nothing  but  mourn  and  lament  for  him  night  and  day.  He 
has  not  stirred  from  the  bed-side  these  two  days. 

My  uncle  Toby  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  thrust  his 
plate  from  before  him,  as  the  landlord  gave  him  the  account ;  and 
Trim,  without  being  ordered,  took  it  away  without  saying  one 
word,  and,  in  a  few  minutes  after,  brought  him  his  pipe  and 
tobacco  —  Stay  in  the  room  a  little,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

Trim  !  said  my  uncle  Toby,  after  he  lighted  his  pipe,  and 
smoked  about  a  dozen  whiffs.  — Trim  came  in  front  of  his  mas- 
ter, and  made  his  bow ;  —  my  uncle  Toby  smoked  on,  and  said 
no  more.  —  Corporal  !  said  my  uncle  Toby,  —  the  Corporal  made 
his  bow.  —  My  uncle  Toby  proceeded  no  farther,  but  finished  his 
pipe. 

Trim  !  said  my  uncle  Toby,  I  have  a  project  in  my  head,  as  it 
is  a  bad  night,  of  wrapping  myself  up  warm  in  my  roquelaure,  and 
paying  a  visit  to  this  poor  gentleman.  —  Your  Honor's  roquelaure, 
replied  the  Corporal,  has  not  once  been  had  on,  since  the  night 
before  your  Honor  received  your  wound,  when  we  mounted  guard 
in  the  trenches  before  the  gate  of  St.  Nicholas ;  and,  besides,  it 
is  so  cold  and  rainy  a  night,  that  what  with  the  roquelaure,  and 
what  with  the  weather,  'twill  be  enough  to  give  your  Honor  your 
death,  and  bring  on  your  Honor's  torment  in  your  groin.  —  I 
fear  so,  replied  my  uncle  Toby ;  but  I  am  not  at  rest  in  my  mind, 
Trim,  since  the  account  the  landlord  has  given  me.  —  I  wish  I 
had  not  known  so  much  of  this  affair,  added  my  uncle  Toby,  or 
that  I  had  known  more  of  it.  —  How  shall  we  manage  it  ?     Leave 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY,  229 

it,  an'  please  your  Honor,  to  me,  quoth  the  Corporal.  I'll  take 
my  hat  and  stick,  and  go  to  the  house  and  reconnoitre,  and 
act  accordingly ;  and  I  will  bring  your  Honor  a  full  account  in  an 
hour.  —  Thou  shalt  go,  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  and  here's  a 
shilling  for  thee  to  drink  with  his  servant.  I  shall  get  it  all  out 
of  him,  said  the  Corporal,  shutting  the  door. 

My  uncle  Toby  filled  his  second  pipe ;  and  had  it  not  been 
that  he  now  and  then  wandered  from  the  point,  with  considering 
whether  it  was  not  full  as  well  to  have  the  curtain  of  the  t^naille 
a  straight  line,  as  a  crooked  one,  —  he  might  be  said  to  have 
thought  of  nothing  else  but  poor  Le  Fevre  and  his  boy  the  whole 
time  he  smoked  it. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE    STORY    OF    LE    FEVRE    CONTINUED. 

—  It  was  not  till  my  uncle  Toby  had  knocked  the  ashes  out  of 
his  third  pipe,  that  Corporal  Trim  returned  from  the  inn,  and 
gave  him  the  following  account :  — 

—  I  despaired  at  first,  said  the  Corporal,  of  being  able  to 
bring  back  your  Honor  any  kind  of  intelligence  concerning  the 
poor  sick  lieutenant.  —  Is  he  in  the  army  then  ?  said  my  uncle 
Toby.^ — He  is,  said  the  Corporal. — And  in  what  regiment?  said 
my  uncle  Toby.  — ■  I  '11  tell  your  Honor,  replied  the  Corporal, 
every  thing  straight-forwards,  as  I  learnt  it.  —  Then,  Trim,  I'll 
fill  another  pipe,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  and  not  interrupt  thee, 
till  thou  hast  done ;  so  sit  down  at  thy  ease.  Trim,  in  the  window- 
seat,  and  begin  thy  story  again.  —  The  Corporal  made  his  old 
bow,  which  generally  spoke  as  plain  as  a  bow  could  speak  it  — 
Your  Honour  is  good  :  —  And  having  done  that,  he  sat  down,  as 
he  was  ordered,  and  began  the  story  to  my  uncle  Toby  over  again, 
in  pretty  near  the  same  words. 

I  despaired  at  first,  said  the  Corporal,  of  being  able  to  bring 
back  any  intelligence  to  your  Honor,  about  the  lieutenant  and 


230  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

his  son :  —  for,  when  I  asked  where  his  servant  was,  from  whom 
I  made  myself  sure  of  knowing  everything  which  was  proper  to  be 
asked,  —  (That's  a  right  distinction,  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby) 
—  I  was  answered,  an'  please  your  Honor,  that  he  had  no  servant 
with  him ;  —  that  he  had  come  to  the  inn  with  hired  horses, 
which,  upon  finding  himself  unable  to  proceed,  (to  join,  I  suppose, 
the  regiment)  he  had  dismissed  the  morning  after  he  came.  —  If 
I  get  better,  my  dear,  said  he,  as  he  gave  his  purse  to  his  son  to 
pay  the  man,  —  we  can  hire  horses  from  hence.  —  But  alas  !  the 
poor  gentleman  will  never  go  from  hence,  said  the  landlady  to 
me,  —  for  I  heard  the  death-watch  all  night  long  ;  —  and,  when 
he  dies,  the  youth,  his  son,  will  certainly  die  with  him ;  for  he  is 
broken-hearted  already. 

I  was  hearing  this  account,  continued  the  Corporal,  when  the 
youth  came  into  the  kitchen,  to  order  the  thin  toast  the  landlord 
spoke  of :  —  but  I  will  do  it  for  my  father,  myself,  said  the 
youth.  —  Pray  let  me  save  you  the  trouble,  young  gentleman, 
said  I,  taking  up  a  fork  for  the  purpose,  and  offering  him  my 
chair  to  sit  down  upon  by  the  fire,  whilst  I  did  it.  —  I  believe. 
Sir,  said  he,  very  modestly,  I  can  please  him  best  myself.  —  I 
am  sure,  said  I,  his  Honor  will  not  like  the  toast  the  worse  for 
being  toasted  by  an  old  soldier.  —  The  youth  took  hold  of  my 
hand,  and  instantly  burst  into  tears.  —  Poor  youth  !  said  my 
uncle  Toby ;  —  he  has  been  bred  up  from  an  infant  in  the  army ; 
and  the  name  of  a  soldier.  Trim,  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the 
name  of  a  friend  !  —  I  wish  I  had  him  here. 

i  — I  never,  in  the  longest  march,  said  the  Corporal,  had  so 
great  a  mind  for  my  dinner,  as  I  had  to  cry  with  him  for  com- 
pany :  —  What  could  be  the  matter  with  me,  an*  please  your 
Honor? — Nothing  in  the  world.  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby, 
blowing  his  nose,  —  but  that  thou  art  a  good-natured  fellow. 

—  When  I  gave  him  the  toast,  continued  the  Corporal,  I 
thought  it  was  proper  to  tell  him,  I  was  Captain  Shandy's  servant, 
and  that  your  Honor  (though  a  stranger)  was  extremely  con- 
cerned for  his  father ;  —  and  that  if  there  was  anything  in  your 
house  or  cellar  —  (And  thou  might'st  have  added  my  purse  too^ 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY,  23 1 

said  my  uncle  Toby)  —  he  was  heartily  welcome  to  it.  —  He 
made  a  very  low  bow  (which  was  meant  to  your  Honor)  but  no 
answer ;  —  for  his  heart  was  full :  —  so  he  went  up  stairs  with  the 
toast.  —  I  warrant  you,  my  dear,  said  I,  as  I  opened  the  kitchen- 
door,  your  father  will  be  well  again.  —  Mr.  Yorick's  curate  was 
smoking  a  pipe  by  the  kitchen-fire,  —  but  said  not  a  word,  good 
or  bad,  to  comfort  the  youth.  —  I  thought  it  wrong,  added  the 
Corporal.  —  I  think  so  too,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

When  the  lieutenant  had  taken  his  glass  of  sack  and  toast,  he 
felt  himself  a  little  revived,  and  sent  down  into  the  kitchen,  to  let 
me  know,  that  in  about  ten  minutes,  he  should  be  glad  if  I  would 
step  up  stairs.  —  I  believe,  said  the  landlord,  he  is  going  to  say  his 
prayers,  —  for  there  was  a  book  laid  upon  the  chair  by  his  bed- 
side, and  as  I  shut  the  door,  I  saw  his  son  take  up  a  cushion. 

—  I  thought,  said  the  curate,  that  you  gentlemen  of  the  army, 
Mr.  Trim,  never  said  your  prayers  at  all.  —  I  heard  the  poor 
gentleman  say  his  prayers  last  night,  said  the  landlady,  very 
devoutly,  and  with  my  own  ears,  or  I  could  not  have  believed  it. 
—  Are  you  sure  of  it?  replied  the  curate.  —  A  soldier,  an'  please 
your  Reverence,  said  I,  prays  as  often  (of  his  own  accord)  as  a 
parson ;  and  when  he  is  fighting  for  his  king,  and  for  his  own  life, 
and  for  his  honor  too,  he  has  the  most  reason  to  pray  to  God  of 
any  one  in  the  whole  world.  —  Twas  well  said  of  thee.  Trim,  said 
my  uncle  Toby.  —  But  when  a  soldier,  said  I,  an'  please  your 
Reverence,  has  been  standing  for  twelve  hours  together  in  the 
trenches,  up  to  his  knees  in  cold  water,  —  or  engaged,  said  I,  for 
months  together,  in  long  and  dangerous  marches ;  —  harassed, 
perhaps,  in  his  rear  to-day ;  —  harassing  others  to-morrow ;  — 
detached  here  ;  —  countermanded  there  ;  —  resting  this  night  out 
upon  his  arms;  — beat  up  in  his  shirt  the  next;  — benumbed  in 
his  joints ;  perhaps  without  straw  in  his  tent  to  kneel  on  ;  — 
must  say  his  prayers  how  and  when  he  can.  —  I  believe,  said  I, 
for  I  was  piqued,  quoth  the  Corporal,  for  the  reputation  of  the 
army,  —  I  believe,  an'  please  your  Reverence,  said  I,  that  when  a 
•soldier  gets  time  to  pray,  —  he  prays  as  heartily  as  a  parson  — 
though  not  with  all  his  fuss  and  hypocrisy  —  Thou  shouldst  not 


232  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

have  said  that,  Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  —  for  God  only  knows 
who  is  a  hypocrite,  and  who  is  not :  —  At  the  great  and  general 
review  of  us  all.  Corporal,  at  the  day  of  judgment,  (and  not  till 
then)  — it  will  be  seen  who  have  done  their  duties  in  this  world, 
—  and  who  have  not ;  and  we  shall  be  advanced.  Trim,  accord- 
ingly. —  I  hope  we  shall,  said  Trim.  —  It  is  in  the  Scripture,  said 
my  uncle  Toby;  and  I  will  show  it  thee  to-morrow.  —  In  the 
mean  time  we  may  depend  upon  it.  Trim,  for  our  comfort,  said 
my  uncle  Toby,  that  God  Almighty  is  so  good  and  just  a  governor 
of  the  world,  that  if  we  have  but  done  our  duties  in  it,  —  it  will 
never  be  inquired  into,  whether  we  have  done  them  in  a  red  coat 
or  a  black  one.  —  I  hope  not,  said  the  Corporal.  —  But  go  on. 
Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  thy  story.  — 

—  When  I  went  up,  continued  the  Corporal,  into  the  lieuten- 
ant's room,  which  I  did  not  do  till  the  expiration  of  the  ten  min- 
utes, —  he  was  lying  in  his  bed,  with  his  head  raised  upon  his 
hand,  with  his  elbow  upon  the  pillow,  and  a  clean  white  cambric 
handkerchief  beside  it.  —  The  youth  was  just  stooping  down  to 
take  up  the  cushion,  upon  which,  I  supposed,  he  had  been  kneel- 
ing ;  —  the  book  was  laid  upon  the  bed ;  —  and  as  he  rose,  in 
taking  up  the  cushion  with  one  hand,  he  reached  out  his  other 
to  take  it  away  at  the  same  time.  —  Let  it  remain  there,  my  dear, 
said  the  lieutenant.  — 

He  did  not  offer  to  speak  to  me,  till  I  had  walked  up  close  to 
his  bedside.  —  If  you  are  Captain  Shandy's  servant,  said  he,  you 
must  present  my  thanks  to  your  master,  w^ith  my  little  boy's 
thanks  along  with  them,  for  his  courtesy  to  me.  —  If  he  was  of 
Leven's,  —  said  the  lieutenant.  —  I  told  him  your  Honor  was.  — 
Then,  said  he,  I  served  three  campaigns  with  him  in  Flanders, 
and  remember  him,  —  but  'tis  most  likely,  as  I  had  not  the  honor 
of  any  acquaintance  with  him,  that  he  knows  nothing  of  me.  — 
You  will  tell  him,  however,  that  the  person  his  good-nature  has 
laid  under  obligations  to  him,  is  one  Le  Fevre,  a  lieutenant  in 
Angus's  ;  —  but  he  knows  me  not,  —  said  he,  a  second  time,  mus- 
ing; —  possibly  he  may  my  story,  added  he.  —  Pray  tell  the  cap- 
tain, I  was  the  ensign  at  Breda,  whose  wife  was  most  unfortunately 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY. 


233 


killed  with  a  musket- shot,  as  she  lay  in  my  arms  in  my  tent.  —  I 
remember  the  story,  an'  please  your  Honor,  said  I,  very  well.  — 
Do  you  so  ?  —  said  he,  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief,  —  then 
well  may  I.  —  In  saying  this,  he  drew  a  little  ring  out  of  his  bosom, 
which  seemed  tied  with  a  black  ribbon  about  his  neck,  and  kissed 
it  twice.  —  Here,  Billy,  said  he  ;  —  the  boy  flew  across  the  room 
to  the  bed-side,  —  and  falling  down  upon  his  knee,  took  the  ring 
in  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  too,  —  then  kissed  his  father,  and  sat 
down  upon  the  bed  and  wept. 

I  wish,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  a  deep  sigh,  —  I  wish,  Trim, 
I  was  asleep.  — 

Your  Honor,  replied  the  Corporal,  is  too  much  concerned.  — 
Shall  I  pour  out  your  Honor  a  glass  of  sack,  to  your  pipe  ?  —  Do, 
Trim,  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

I  remember,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  sighing  again,  the  story  of 
the  ensign  and  his  wife,  with  a  circumstance  his  modesty  omitted ; 
—  and  particularly  well  that  he,  as  well  as  she,  upon  some  account 
or  other,  (I  forget  what)  was  universally  pitied  by  the  whole  regi- 
ment ;  —  but  finish  the  story  thou  art  upon.  —  'Tis  finished  already, 
said  the  Corporal,  —  for  I  could  stay  no  longer ;  —  so  wished  his 
Honor  a  good-night.  Young  Le  Fevre  rose  from  off  the  bed, 
and  saw  me  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs ;  and  as  we  went  down 
together,  told  me,  they  had  come  from  Ireland,  and  were  on  their 
route  to  join  the  regiment  in  Flanders.  —  But  alas  !  said  the 
Corporal,  —  the  lieutenant's  last  day's  march  is  over  !  —  Then 
what  is  to  become  of  his  poor  boy?  cried  my  uncle  Toby. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE   STORY    OF    LE    FEVRE    CONTINUED. 

It  was  to  my  uncle  Toby's  eternal  honor  —  though  T  tell  it  only 
for  the  sake  of  those  who,  when  cooped  in  betwixt  a  natural  and  a 
positive  law,  know  not,  for  their  souls,  which  way  in  the  world  to 
turn   themselves,  —  That   notwithstanding   my  uncle   Toby  was 


234  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION. 

warmly  engaged  at  that  time  in  carrying  on  the  siege  of  Dender- 
mond,  parallel  with  the  allies,  who  pressed  theirs  so  vigorously, 
that  they  scarce  allowed  him  time  to  get  his  dinner :  —  that 
nevertheless  he  gave  up  Dendermond,  though  he  had  already 
made  a  lodgment  upon  the  counterscarp ;  —  and  bent  his  whole 
thoughts  towards  the  private  distresses  at  the  inn ;  and,  except 
that  he  ordered  the  garden-gate  to  be  bolted  up,  by  which  he 
might  be  said  to  have  turned  the  siege  of  Dendermond  into  a 
blockade,  —  he  left  Dendermond  to  itself,  —  to  be  relieved  or  not 
by  the  French  king,  as  the  French  king  thought  good ;  and  only 
considered  how  he  himself  should  relieve  the  poor  lieutenant  and 
his  son. 

—  That  kind  Being,  who  is  a  friend  to  the  friendless,  shall 
recompense  thee  for  this. — 

Thou  hast  left  this  matter  short,  said  my  uncle  Toby  to  the 
Corporal,  as  he  was  putting  him  to  bed,  and  I  will  tell  thee  in  what, 
Trim.  —  In  the  first  place,  when  thou  mad'st  an  offer  of  my  ser- 
vices to  Le  Fevre,  —  as  sickness  and  travelling  are  both  expen- 
sive, and  thou  knew'st  he  was  but  a  poor  lieutenant,  with  a  son 
to  subsist  as  well  as  himself,  out  of  his  pay,  —  that  thou  didst  not 
make  an  offer  to  him  of  my  purse  ;  because,  had  he  stood  in 
need,  thou  knowest,  Trim,  he  had  been  as  welcome  to  it  as  myself. 

—  Your  Honor  knows,  said  the  Corporal,  I  had  no  orders. — 
True,  quoth  my  uncle  Toby,  —  Thou  didst  very  right.  Trim,  as  a 
soldier,  —  but  certamly  very  wrong  as  a  man. 

i  In  the  second  place,  for  which,  indeed,  thou  hast  the  same 
excuse,  continued  my  uncle  Toby,  —  when  thou  offeredst  him 
whatever  was  in  my  house,  thou  shouldst  have  offered  him  my 
house  too.  —  A  sick  brother  officer  should  have  the  best  quarters, 
Trim,  and  if  we  had  him  with  us,  —  we  could  tend  and  look  to 
him.  —  Thou  art  an  excellent  nurse  thyself.  Trim,  and  what  with 
thy  care  of  him,  and  the  old  woman's,  and  his  boy's,  and  mine 
together,  we  might  recruit  him  again  at  once,  and  set  him  upon  his 
legs.  —  In  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  added  my  uncle  Toby,  smiling, 

—  he  might  march.  —  He  will  never  march,  an'  please  your  Honor, 
in  this  world,  said  the  Corporal.     He  will  march,  said  my  uncle 


TRISTRAM  SHANDY.  235 

Toby,  rising  up  from  the  side  of  the  bed  with  one  shoe  off.  —  An' 
please  your  Honor,  said  the  Corporal,  he  will  never  march,  but  to 
his  grave.  —  He  shall  march,  cried  my  uncle  Toby,  marching  the 
foot  which  had  a  shoe  on,  though  without  advancing  an  inch,  — 
he  shall  march  to  his  regiment.  —  He  cannot  stand  it,  said  the 
Corporal.  —  He  shall  be  supported,  said  my  uncle  Toby.  —  He'll 
drop  at  last,  said  the  Corporal,  and  what  will  become  of  his  boy? 
—  He  shall  not  drop,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  firmly.  —  A-well-a-day  ! 
do  what  we  can  for  him,  said  Trim,  maintaining  his  point,  —  the 
poor  soul  will  die.  —  He  shall  not  die,  by  G — ,  cried  my  uncle 
Toby. 

—  The  accusing  spirit  which  flew  up  to  Heaven's  chancery 
with  the  oath,  blush'd  as  he  gave  it  in ;  and  the  recording  angel, 
as  he  wrote  it  down,  dropp'd  a  tear  upon  the  word,  and  blotted 
it  out  forever. 

CHAPTER   IX. 

—  My  uncle  Toby  went  to  his  bureau,  —  put  his  purse  into  his 
breeches-pocket,  and  having  ordered  the  Corporal  to  go  early  in 
the  morning  for  a  physician,  —  he  went  to  bed,  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE  STORY  OF  LE  FEVRE  CONCLUDED. 

The  sun  looked  bright  the  morning  after,  to  every  eye  in  the 
village  but  Le  Fevre's  and  his  afflicted  son's ;  the  hand  of  death 
press'd  heavy  upon  his  eye-Hds ;  —  and  hardly  could  the  wheel  at 
the  cistern  turn  round  its  circle,  —  when  my  uncle  Toby,  who  had 
rose  up  an  hour  before  his  wonted  time,  entered  the  lieutenant's 
room,  and  without  preface  or  apology,  sat  himself  down  upon  the 
chair  by  the  bed-side,  and,  independently  of  all  modes  and  cus- 
toms, opened  the  curtain  in  the  manner  an  old  friend  and 
brother-officer  would  have  done  it,  and  asked  him  how  he  did,  — 
how  he  had  rested  in  the  night,  —  what  was  his  complaint, — 


236  STUDY  OF  ENGLISH  FICTION, 

where  was  his  pain,  —  and  what  he  could  do  to  help  him ;  —  and 
without  giving  him  time  to  answer  any  one  of  the  inquiries,  went 
on  and  told  him  of  the  little  plan  which  he  had  been  concerting 
with  the  Corporal  the  night  before  for  him. 

You  shall  go  home  directly,  Le  Fevre,  said  my  uncle  Toby,  to 
my  house,  and  we'll  send  for  a  doctor  to  see  what's  the  matter,  — 
and  we'll  have  an  apothecary,  —  and  the  Corporal  shall  be  your 
nurse  ;  —  and  I'll  be  your  servant,  Le  Fevre.  — 

There  was  a  frankness  in  my  uncle  Toby,  —  not  the  effect  of 
familiarity,  —  but  the  cause  of  it,  —  which  let  you  at  once  into  his 
soul,  and  showed  you  the  goodness  of  his  nature.  To  this,  there 
was  something  in  his  looks,  and  voice,  and  manner,  superadded, 
which  eternally  beckoned  to  the  unfortunate  to  come  and  take 
shelter  under  him ;  so  that  before  my  uncle  Toby  had  half  fin- 
ished the  kind  offers  he  was  making  to  the  father,  had  the  son 
insensibly  pressed  up  close  to  his  knees,  and  had  taken  hold  of  the 
breast  of  his  coat,  and  was  pulling  it  towards  him.  —  The  blood 
and  spirits  of  Le  Fevre,  which  were  waxing  cold  and  slow  within 
him,  and  were  retreating  to  their  last  citadel,  the  heart  —  rallied 
back,  —  the  film  forsook  his  eyes  for  a  moment ;  —  he  looked  up 
wishfully  in  my  uncle  Toby's  face  ;  —  then  cast  a  look  upon  his 
boy;  —  and  that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was,  was  never  broken. — 

Nature  instantly  ebb'd  again;  —  the  film  returned  to  its  place; 
— the  pulse  fluttered,  —  stopp'd, — went  on,  —  throbb'd,  —  stopp'd 
again,  —  mov'd,  —  stopp'd,  —  shall  I  go  on  ? No. 

CHAPTER   XI. 

I  AM  so  impatient  to  return  to  my  own  story,  that  what  remains 
of  young  Le  Fevre's,  that  is,  from  this  turn  of  his  fortune,  to  the 
time  my  uncle  Toby  recommended  him  for  my  preceptor,  shall  be 
told  in  a  very  few  words,  in  the  next  chapter.  —  All  that  is  neces- 
sary to  be  added  to  this  chapter  is  as  follows  :  — 

That  my  uncle  Toby,  with  young  Le  Fevre  in  his  hand, 
attended  the  poor  lieutenant,  as  chief  mourners,  to  his  grave. 


INDEX. 


A. 

Page 

Adam  Bede 67 

Addison,  Joseph 39 

Adelmorn  the  Outlaw 59 

Aleman 31 

All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well     ...  28 

Amadis  de  Gaula 32 

Amelia   .     , 50 

Angles,  The 15 

Anglo-Saxons,  The 14 

Anna  Karenina 72 

Arcadia,  Sannazaro's 32 

Arcadia,  Sir  Philip  Sidney's    ...  32 

Arcadia,  Selection  from  ....  109 

Arne 74 

Arthur,  Romances  of     .     .   19,  21,  25,  64 

As  You  Like  It    ......     .  28 

Astrophel  and  Stella 31 

Aurora  Leigh .  65 

Austen,  Jane 58,  60-61 

B. 

Ballads,  The   ........  21 

Balzac *     .     .     .     .  71 

Barque  Future,  The 74 

Beckford,  William S8 

Behn,  Mrs 37 

Belinda       60 

Beowulf. 15-18 

Beowulf,  Selection  from      ...  94 

Bevis  of  Hampton 19 

Bjornson,  B 74>  75 

Books  for  Reference  and 

Reading 86 

Bravo  of  Venice 59>  60 

Breton,  Nicholas 31 

Bride  of  Abydos 65 

Bronte,  Charlotte 62 

Browning,  E.  B 65 

Bui wer,  Edward  (Lord  Lytton)  .     .  64 

Bunyan,  John .,     .  38 


Page 
Barney,  Frances  (Mme.  d'Arblay)  56,  62 
Byron 65,  71 

C. 

Caleb  Williams 57 

Camilla 62 

Campbell,  Thomas 65 

Canterbury  Tales,  The  .     .     .     .     22,  25 

Captain  Singleton 41 

Carlyle 68,76,85 

Cassandre   .     .     .     .* 2^7 

Castle  of  Otranto 57»  58 

Castle  Spectre,  The 59 

Caxton,  William 25 

Cecilia .      62 

Cervantes 32, 43 

Character  Painting 55 

Chaucer 22-23,25,63 

Chettle,  Henry 31 

Chevy  Chace 21 

Chretien  de  Troyes 21 

Clarissa  Harlowe 46 

Cleopatre 2)7 

Colonel  Jack 3°)  42 

Com6die  Humaine    ......      71 

Comedy  of  Love 79 

Comtesse  de  Rudolstadt     ....      71 

Consuelo 71 

Cooper,  J.  F 63,  64,  71,8  ^ 

Corsair,  The 65 

Cossacks,  The 72 

Count  of  Monte  Cristo 71 

Countess  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia      .       32 
Count  Fathom 51 

D. 

Daudet,  Alphonse 80-8 1 

David  Copperfield 65,  66 

Defoe,  Daniel .     .     .30,  39-43?  44»  45)  62 
Dekker,  Thomas 31 


238 


INDEX. 


Page 

Diana  Enamorada 32 

Dickens,  Charles  .     .     .65,  68,  69,  71,  80 
Doll-House,  The  .......       79 

Don  Quixote 43 

Doron's  Wooing  of  Carmela  .     133 

Doyle,  Conan 84 

Dumas,  Alexandre 71 

Duncan  Campbell 41 


E. 

Edgeworth,  Maria 60,  62 

Eliot,  George  ....  67-69,  71,  83,  85 

Elizabeth,  Age  of 34 

Emma 61 

Euphues 27-28,  32,  33 

Euphuism 27 

Evangeline 65 

Evelina 62 


F. 

Faerie  Queene,  The  ......      36 

Family  Happiness 72 

Ferrier,  Susan  E 62 

Fielding,  Henry    43,  46,  47-50,  60,  62,  67 

Fisher  Maiden,  The 74 

Forbonius  and  Prisceria      ....       29 
FoRBONius  AND  Prisceria,  Selec- 
tion from no 

French  Romances     .     .     .     .     26, 37,  71 


G. 

Galatea 32 

Gertrude  of  Wyoming 65 

Gesta  Romanorum 21 

Giaour,  The 65 

Gleemen,  The  14 

Godwin,  William 57 

Goethe 56 

Goldsmith,  Oliver     .     .     •    53,  55,  62,  69 

Graal-Saga,  The 21 

Grand  Cyrus 37 

Greene,  Robert     ....    28-29,  32,  33 
Gulliver's  Travels     ....    26,  43,  44 

Guy  of  Warwick 19 

Guzman  de  Alafarache 31 


H. 

Handy  Andy 64 

Hardy,  Thomas 84 

Havelock  the  Dane 20 


Page 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel 64 

Henry  Esmond 67 

Here  ward  the  Wake 19 

Hiawatha 65 

Howells,  W.  D 76,  82,  83 

Hugo,  Victor 7^)  84 

Humphrey  Clinker 51 


Ibsen,  Henrik  ...       72,  75,  'j*^^  78,  79 

Idylls  of  the  King 26,  64 

Inchbald,  Mrs. 62 

Inheritance 62 

Italian  Romances 26 

Ivan  llyitch 72,  79 


J- 

Jack  Wilton 3o»  33 

Jack  Wilton,  Selection  from  .     .     139 

James,  Henry 80,  83,  84 

Jane  Eyre 62 

Johnson,  Samuel 53 

Jonathan  Wild 43>  5^ 

Joseph  Andrews  .     .     .     .48,  49,  50,  53 
journal  of  the  Plague     .     .     .    .     41, 42 


K. 

Kabale  und  Liebe 59 

King  Horn 20,  23 

King  Horn,  Selection  from  ,     .     .     103 
Kreutzer  Sonata,  The   ....      72,  79 


La  Calprenede      .......  37 

Lady  of  the  Lake 64 

Lamb,  Charles 70 

Lanier,  Sidney 68 

Lara 65 

L'Assommoir 73 

Last  of  the  Mohicans 64 

La  Terre 74 

La  Vie  Boheme 79 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel   ....  64 
Lazarillo  de  Tdrmes       .     .     .     .      30, 31 

Lecky 53 

Leonora 60 

Les  Mis^rables 71 

Lewis,  M.  G 58 

Lie,  Jonas *     .      74,  75 

Limitations  of  the  Novel    ....  'jy 


INDEX. 


239 


Page 

Lodge,  Thomas 28,  32 

Longfellow 65 

Lope  da  Vega 32 

Lover,  Samuel 64 

Love's  Labor  's  Lost 28 

Lucile 65 

Lyly,  Joh:i 27 


M. 

Macbeth 36 

Mackenzie,  Henry 56 

Malory,  Sir  Thomas 25 

Man  of  Feeling,  The 56 

Manley,  Mrs yj 

Mansfield  Park 61 

Margarite  of  America,  A     .     .     .     .  29 
Margarite  of  America,  A,  Se- 
lection from 148 

Marmion 65 

Marriage 62 

Marryat,  Captain 64 

Maupassant,  Guy  de 81 

Measure  for  Measure 28 

Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier 41 

Menaphon 28 

Mendoza 30j  3' 

Meredith,  Owen  (Lord  Lytton)   .     .  65 
Metrical  Romance,  The      .   20,  21,  23,  64 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream    ...  36 

Mill  on  the  Floss 67 

Minstrels,  The T9,  23 

Modern  Instance,  A  .....     .  83 

Moll  Flanders    « 30»  42,  43 

Moll  Flanders,  Selection  from   .  150 

Monk,  The 5^ 

Montemayor 32 

More,  Sir  Thomas 26 

Morris,  William 64 

Morte  d' Arthur 25 

Mr.  Midshipman  Easy 64 

Murger,  Henri 79 

My  Confession 79 

Mysteries  of  Udolpho    .     .     .     58,  61, 62 


N. 

Nabob,  The 80 

Nash,  Thomas 3o»  33 

Nature  and  Art 62 

Ned  Browne 33 

Normans   The 18 

Northanger  Abbey 58,  61 

Northern  Romances 74 

Notre  Dame  de  Paris     ......      71 

Novel,  The 37>  38 


O. 


Ohnet,  Georges 

Old  English  Story-Tellers 


Page 


P. 

Pamela  ...     43,  45-46,  47.  48,  49>  69 

Pamela,  Selection  from    ....  184 

Pandosto 29 

Pathfinder 64 

Patronage 60 

Paynter's  Palace  of  Pleasure  ...  28 

Peace  and  War 72 

Pendennis 67 

Peregrine  Pickle 51 

Perfection  of  the  Novel,  The  55 

Persuasion 61 

Peter  Simple 64 

Pharamond yj 

Picaresque  Romance,  The      .     .     .  y^i^ 

Pickwick  Papers 66 

Pilgrim's  Progress 38 

Pilot  and  his  Wife,  The     ....  74 

Porter,  Jane 62 

Pride  and  Prejudice 61 

Process  of  the  Seven  Sages     ...  21 

Purpose,  The  Novel  of 60 


Q. 

Quality  of  Mercy,  The 83 


Rabelais 26, 43 

Radcliffe,  Mrs 57,  58,  62 

Rasselas 53 

Realism 42,  75 

Red  Rover,  The 64 

Repentances,  Greene's  ....  29,  30 
Richardson,  Samuel  .  .  33,  43,  45-47,  62 
Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,  The  .  .  .  ^-r^ 
Rise  of  the  Novel,  The  ...      37 

Robin  Hood 21 

Robinson  Crusoe  ....  41,  43,  44,  45 

Roderick  Random 51 

Romance,  The 57 

Romance    at    the    Court    of 

Elizabeth,  The 25 

Romantic  Spirit 35 

Romeo  and  Juliet 28 

Rosalynde .     28^  29 

Roxana  .....«*«..      42 


240 


INDEX. 


S. 

Page 

Sand,  George 7i>  8^ 

Sannazaro 32 

Satire,  The 43 

Scenes  from  Clerical  Life  ....      62 

Schiller 59 

Scott,  Sir  Walter        55,  61,  63,  64,  71,  84 

Scottish  Chiefs 62 

Scudery,  Madeleine  de '^^ 

Sense  and  Sensibility 61 

Sentimental  Journey,  The  .     ...       51 
Sentimental  Novel,  The     ....       56 

Sevastopol 72 

Seventeenth  Century,  The      ...       '^^ 

Shakespeare 2!^ 

Shepherds  Wives  Song    ,    .     .     137 

Sicilian  Romance,  The 62 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 31,  34 

Simple  Story,  A 62 

Sir  Charles  Grandison 47 

Sir  Launcelot  Graves 51 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley 39 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 21 

Smollett,  Tobias  .     .     ,     .     .     46,  50,  51 

Song  of  Roland ,     .       18 

Song  of  the  Fight  at  Maldon  ...       15 

Spanish  Romances y^t  Zl 

Steele,  Richard 39 

Stevenson,  R.  L 04 

Sterne,  Laurence  46,  50,  51-53,  55,  56,  60 

Stowe,  H.  B ^% 

Swift,  Jonathan    .     .     .     .     .     .     43, 44 

Swinburne,  A.  C 64 

Synnove  Solbakken 74 


T. 

Tendencies  of  To-day     ...      70 

Tennyson 26, 64 

Thackeray  ...     49,  51,  67,  69,  71,  85 


Page 
Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  .....  62 
Tolstoi  ....  72,  75,  ^^,  -jZ^  79,  84 
Pom  Jones.     .  49,50,53,55,69 

Tom  Jones,  Selection  from  .    .    ,    189 

Tristram  Shandy S',  52,  55 

Tristram  Shandy,  Selection  from  221 

Troubadours,  The 19 

Trovlus  and  Criseyde     .     .     .     .     27, 2 c 
Twelfth  Night 28 


U. 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin 78 

Unfortunate  Traveller,  The    ...  30 

Utopia    .    .     , 26 


V, 

Vanity  Fair 67 

Vathek 58 

Vicar  of  Wakefield    .     .     .     .    53,  55, 69 
Victory  of  King  Aethelstan     ...       15 


W. 

Walpole,  Horace 56,  57,  58 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry 84 

Water  Witch,  The 64 

Werther 56 

Wing  and  Wing 64 

Winter's  Tale 28,  29 

Wolfram 21 

Women  Novelists     ^    ....    a      62 


Zelauto 28 

Zola  .    .     .  72,  T^,,  75,  -JT,  78,  79,  81,  84 


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